Mariposa
by Emochromatic
Summary: AU, set in a country similar to feudal Japan. Eighteen year old Szayel works at a whorehouse, displaced by a war that claimed his house eight years ago. Nnoitra/Szayel with some situational oocness on Szayel's part. M for sexual content and graphic violence.
1. Pintado

**Mariposa**

And indeed there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

~T.S Eliot "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

He sat erect in the center of the bed, with the covers arranged around his waist like the petals of a flower. His posture was impeccable; his spine was as straight as a calla stalk, but not tense. His shoulders did not strain backwards awkwardly; he held the position with the easy grace of one who has long grown used to it. His legs were tucked underneath him in the traditional, modest fashion. In his lap lay his folded hands, delicate and tapered. They were soft hands, pale hands; the hands of one who lived a leisurely lifestyle.

He was more woman than man in his elegant splendor, and more doll than woman. His lips were painted a striking cherry red; small, plump, and perfect. His complexion was porcelain, so white that it obviated the need for powder to lighten his face. A hint of blush, very subtle, brought out the shape of his cheekbones. It was a hue that matched the color of his long pink hair, which was drawn up into a luxurious coil and pinned into submission by an array of lacquered, gilded hair ornaments. A kimono with a simple pattern wrapped his slender body, but the obi was undone and the front of it hung tantalizingly loose over his narrow shoulders. The mix between modesty and seduction was artful, a skill cultured by the House for decades; this was no common whorehouse with gaudily painted prostitutes and vulgar merchandize. The House specialized in offering quality wares to its clientele. Not quite up to the level of a geisha house, but very close.

Most unusual about him, right after the fact he was male, was that he was blindfolded. The most expressive things about him, his eyes, were covered up by a white cloth that wrapped around his head. It lent him an air of increased vulnerability; he was blind to his fate. But this did not seem to perturb him, as if this too was common practice. As if he was accustomed to his imposed blindness. And so he waited. Calm, lovely, even a little proud in his quiet expectation. Rare dignity in an undignified line of work.

He did not have long to wait. His client arrived shortly, striding in with an aura of cocky confidence. Though he could not see his face, he could imagine the supercilious smirk that would doubtlessly twist his lips unpleasantly. He'd known _his_ type before; arrogant and crude. It usually carried over into their sex. The effeminate man mentally braced himself as he sensed the other's weight on the bed and managed not to let the disgust show on his face as he felt long fingers slide down his cheek. Calloused fingers- a swordsman. They tilted his head so that he faced him, catching on his tender skin like sandpaper.

"They tell me you're male. I find that hard to believe; I've seen sluts uglier than you."

His voice was deep, velveted by his amusement. Szayel did not respond to his comment, nor did he react when the man reached into his kimono and felt up his chest with those calloused hands of his. It was tellingly flat. The client withdrew with a half chuckle.

"Shit. I guess you are. Not that it matters any. I'm bored, and in the mood for something new."

Such was the case with most of those he serviced. He was a novelty, an experimental toy. This attitude was nothing new to him. He sat dispassionately as his customer removed his clothes, only stirring when the sound of rustling cloth ceased and he again felt hands on his body. They stripped down the kimono so that it puddled around his waist and pulled out the hair ornaments one by one until his long tresses uncoiled and fell like a pink mantle around his shoulders. One of the man's hands tangled in his hair while he forced him down onto the bed. Szayel submitted willingly, allowing his tongue to enter when he kissed him and encouraging him to explore. He arched when the man's caresses became more urgent, choreographing his responses to cater to his demonstrated tastes.

It was hardly an amorous experience. There was no passion involved in this line of work, only the feigned love and affected fits of ecstasy. It was not his job to seek pleasure, only awaken it in others. So when he sensed the man wanted to go further but was unsure how to proceed, he coyly ducked between his legs and licked up the inside of his thigh, questioning. The man inhaled sharply at the sensation, then fisted a hand in his hair and dragged him closer. He complied, wincing slightly as his scalp protested the rough treatment, and took the tip of his cock into his mouth. He worked his way down the shaft, tongue coaxing skillfully until he felt it grow rigid in his mouth. The prostitute tasted salt, felt a trickle of fluid seep from the tip down his throat. The man was close, but not quite there yet. He sucked more insistently.

The larger man groaned and thrust into his mouth, taking up the dominant role again. Szayel shuddered slightly but did not gag as he felt the client's length jammed down his throat. Though he felt like he was suffocating, he knew this was only psychological. He could still breath; it was only an irrational panic that choked him. Instinct. His throat burned as the thrusts came harder and faster; the delicate skin felt as though it was being rubbed raw. Beneath the white blindfold, his eyes teared up, and if they'd been open, his vision would be blurry.

His customer only let up when a hot flood spilled down his throat, and he gagged on the salty cum. Through sheer force of will, he swallowed the fluid rather than spit it back up, and even then a small line dribbled from the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away as the other man paused to watch him recover.

"They told me something else about you. They say you're mute. Is that true?"

The amused tone was back, though this time his voice was colored with desire. Though he was demonstrating a brief display of self-restraint, he would not be long in getting back to what he'd paid for. The prostitute nodded silently, confirming this fact, and the other man laughed.

"I wonder abut that," he remarked, then shoved him down on the mattress. He straddled his hips, bending over him to nip at his skin. The mute man moved into every one of his touches, even when they became rough. The nips became bites, and his grip turned bruising. Szayel endured the treatment, never letting the pain show on his face. When his customer pulled him between his thighs again, he took up the work with no less skill than before. But this time, the other man's objective was different. He pushed him away, down on his back again. The prostitute let go, a strand of saliva joining his mouth to the other's hardened member, but it broke as he was shoved roughly backwards.

The entry was crude and unpracticed. That it was his first time with this kind of sex was painfully clear, even if Szayel hadn't known beforehand. Despite his stoicism, he couldn't help the quiet gasp that escaped his painted lips. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, and his mouth twisted down into a grimace. As if testing whether he was truly mute, the bigger man thrust deeply into him. A silent scream tore from his lips, and the client fastened his mouth over his. He hardly registered how his teeth cut into his lip; the agony that raked at him from the inside was crippling and caused all other hurts to fade in contrast. Only when the man finally struck his pleasure point did he find asylum, and he clung to that sensation frantically. Mercifully, his partner had taken note of the response and adjusted his motion to hit that spot. Szayel arched his body up to meet him, straining into his touch with a needy desperation, and lost himself in the euphoric heat.

The afterglow didn't last long. Lying on the bed, the weight of all his aches paralyzed his body. His nerves were spent; he did not even tremble from exhaustion, only lay there absolutely still. The cloth of his blindfold was crusted to his eyelids by the saline tears that had welled up earlier. He was again doll-like, cast aside like a broken toy. His porcelain skin was marred by red welts and bore the faint purple shadows of bruises that surfaced shyly in the shape of finger marks. His hair was tousled and knotted, and his lower lip sported a swelling cut, which his cherry paint obscured. His body was covered with a fine sheen of sweat and clammy to the touch, lacking the heat that their coupling had drawn up earlier.

At the edge of the bed, his client pulled on his clothes and prepared himself to leave. However, when he'd finished dressing, he did not exit the room. Instead, he shifted to lean over Szayel, his rough hands stroking his jaw.

"So you really are dumb, or an accomplished actor. And if you were the latter, you wouldn't be _here_."

He could hear him smirk, his tone insufferably arrogant, but he did not rise to the other man's bait. Only gazed past closed eyelids to a world that did not exist, losing himself in a landscape of clear blue skies and sunlight.

"Well, that's not really important. It's hard to believe you are a man; you act like every other whore I've known. In the end, you're just as weak as any female," the man finished, his tone derisive. He left then with the rustling of cloth, and his absence left a void in the room, as if all the life had fled with his departure. It probably had. There was nothing living in that room; it borrowed vitality from its guests, and when they left, that energy dissipated. All that remained was a hollow vacuum. It made Szayel all the more aware of his own emptiness, lying shattered on the bed. He could not rightly be called alive anymore, for after years of this ritual, he too had become a part of the room. Just another pretty ornament.

After what seemed an age, he managed to summon the will to drag himself upright. It was not strength he showed in sitting up, only the weary hardiness of habit. Though every movement cost him greatly now, the pain would fade, and indeed it had already begun to. The mottled bruises would yellow and heal by midmorning the next day, and the throbbing ache in his lower back would subside to a dull hurt by the end of the evening. Drawing his kimono up around his thin shoulders like a cloak, he slipped out of the room like a ghost. The blindfold he left abandoned on the bed.

He almost made it down the halls to the baths unseen, but was spotted by another who was returning from bathing herself.

"Shizuka!"

He paused, hearing the name the House had bestowed upon him in lieu of knowing his real name. Which was well enough; they all took on false names in this place, whether because they wished to keep their real names private and thus own something no one else could lay claim to, or because they deemed their given names too plain. Umeko was this woman's name, he remembered. Elegant and feminine, with a hint of childish sweetness. A good name. It was a name that sold.

"Shizuka, are you alright?"

Shizuka. Quiet. How well his name suited him, he thought bitterly. He, who could not speak. But he wasn't nearly so resentful anymore. That acrid emotion had seeped out of him over the years, leaving mostly apathy. To Umeko he nodded, his eyes swiveling away from her guiltily at the lie. He was not alright; none of them were alright. She wasn't fooled by his answer for an instant, but didn't press further. She understood the situation, all too well. It was a frequent occupational hazard. Her face conveyed the empathy she felt even while she dipped her head and continued on her way without comment of a backward look. Comfort was only offered in passing glances and in words. They all knew each would have to deal with their troubles privately and keep the suffering off their faces. Ever professional and masters of lying they were. Especially to themselves.

Alone at last, he slid into the heated water of the baths, inhaling the fragrant steam with a sigh of relief. The heat was a balm to his pains, soothing away the persistent throb of his abused body. In the back of his mind, he knew he should shower and scrub his skin clean before he entered the tub, but he could not bring himself to leave and do so. And he wasn't the only one to have ever fed this reluctance, when circumstance allowed for it.

It seemed that he found himself in such circumstances more often than the others. If he was fortunate, he'd have a few days off to recover before he was called again. He'd lounge. Bathe. Enjoy the idle privileges that this lifestyle offered when one was not immediately occupied. Watch the marks that darkened his skin like some terrible rotting disease lighten and finally disappear entirely, leaving his body again a clean white slate on the surface.

He shivered at the thought, began to scrub until his pale skin was rubbed as raw as his throat, and still he could not rid himself of the dirty feeling that persisted underneath. Closing his eyes, he let himself sink further into the water, taking solace in the languid warmth that surrounded him. His silence, Shizuka, was an irrevocable part of him. Stronger perhaps than the other identity he clung to feebly. The formative years of his life had been spent as Shizuka, to the point where he thought of himself not of Szayel, but as Shizuka most of the time.

Szayel. He hugged his knees and retreated to the safety of his mind. Szayel… who was he? A child of ten, bright eyed and insatiably curious with a clear, high voice. Not him… not him. _His_ eyes were covered by cloth, _his_ curiosity stifled and jaded by wordly experience, _his_ voice locked away. He could not rightfully call himself Szayel, yet…

The knowledge that these past eight years did not constitute the whole of his existence was a heady thing. He was more than the paint on his face and the pretty baubles in his hair. Some part of him was unmanufactured; genuine. There was yet a spark of life in him that did not belong to that room. It was a foolish hope he clung to, a foolish dream he entertained that the sum of his life accounted to more than being an absurdly lovely whore.

Szayel hummed to himself, gazed into the distance until he found again his fabricated world of blue skies and sunshine, and allowed his memories to reclaim him.

* * *

Author's Notes:

So, here we have my fourth published story, and the third multichapter fic. By this point, I've realized the willpower to type comes and goes sporadically while my muse does not, and so it is very likely chapters for all three will take quite some time to upload. This fic actually has two written chapters and a third that is nearly complete that I wrote a month ago, but lacked the energy to type up. You have insomnia to thank for its presence here on . (Everyone say it: Thank you insomnia.)

As I mentioned in the summary, this is set in a land similar to feudal Japan. However, because there will be cultural inconsistencies due to the fact I am a lazy American, I've decided to go ahead and say that up front. I know the inconsistencies I make, but I can't be bothered to change them. For the sake of plot, odd eye/hair color is in fact not odd and perfectly acceptable. A Western name like Szayel isn't unusual at all, never mind the fact no one else (except canon characters) have them. And magical creatures, like youkai, do exist in this universe. Yes, this is the epitome of a "hole filled plot" so I'll just get that unpleasantness out of the way right now.

As for the plot itself... it came to me in a dream. Granted, it originally took place in a European setting, but the essence of it is the same. Therefore, I go into this story doing what I never have before; I do not know how it will end, and the bulk of it I've already thought up. So, if it pleases you, join me for the ride. Though it begins in a whorehouse, the story itself is not a dark one. Or it shouldn't be. We'll see how it ends once we get there. Oh, and go check out the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S Eliot if you have some time. I took some liberties with the first line, as I cut out a few between that one and the rest of the stanza, but it is a marvelous poem. I had trouble just selecting one part to represent this fic.

With any luck, my OTP will leave me be after this. *w* I've got other pairings and oneshots I want to write... R&R as always; I will love you forever and send you a long rambly reply. x_x. Unless you tell me not to. *Mutters*

~Tinari


	2. Recuerdos

His shoulders burned from the brutal pacing as he struggled to parry the thrusts of his opponent's weapon. Metal squealed at the clumsy block, grating painfully on his eardrums. He managed to fend off the blows that came on ruthlessly fast for a minute or two, but his own physical weakness doomed him. He failed to raise his blade in time to stop a vicious side cut and paled, already knowing his fate. The sword instructor pulled his swing with impressive control at the last second, and instead of decapitating him, reversed the blade and struck him upside the head with the weapon's hilt. Szayel saw stars as he stumbled backward and fell on his rump gracelessly.

"Don't even bother with sparring until you have the endurance to perform the simple drills," his teacher informed him acidly as he resheathed his sword. "Until then, you are wasting my time."

He turned and left him there, sprawled in the dirt. The man was not known for his patience, but his scathing treatment was hard to swallow when Szayel already had an inferiority complex. It did not help that his older brother's aptitude for swordsmanship was unnaturally keen. He picked up skills with an ease that sickened the younger boy and fanned resentful flames in his heart. It was enough that he had to live up to the expectations he set; an unjust double standard that he would never be able to match. But to see the disappointment and dismissal in the eyes of others? This only compounded the feelings of guilt and inadequacy the eight year old harbored behind a sullen pout.

Well, _it didn't matter_ they said. He didn't have to be his brother, because it was his brother who would inherit his father's title and estate by birthright. However, he was expected to grow up to be a proper scion of his family. That meant having a flair for politics and warfare alike. Szayel was in the process of learning the way of the sword, and so far, he was failing miserably

It might not even have mattered so much to him if it weren't for his looks and build. The sweetness of childhood still rounded his cheeks, and he stared out at the world from beneath a set of lashes that framed his eyes dramatically. His hair was worn long in the fashion of the nobility, and though tied back in the proper male queue, it nonetheless gave him a distinctly feminine appearance. He was precocious child when he wasn't sulky, always questing for knowledge, and when he learned something of interest his sullen countenance would transform his face into something heart-breakingly radiant. He was too frail, to ethereal for his own good. Often he was compared to his mother, who was a beauty of a woman. If only he'd been born a girl, retainers whispered amongst themselves. Though he generally viewed these snide remarks on his character sourly, some days he found himself agreeing that life would be simpler that way, much to his chagrin.

Which led to foolish impulses; times when he rebelled against these lapses in identity. Just like his failed sparring match of today, where the only thing he gained was a heightened sense of inferiority, despair, and humiliation. Swiping at his eyes, which had begun to threaten tears, he dragged himself upright out of his ungainly heap and began beating the dirt out of his clothes.

A flash of color on the veranda overlooking the training yard caught his attention, and he looked up to see who his spectator was. That willowy figure was unmistakable; his mother. Szayel swallowed, ashamed that she was here to witness his ignominious defeat. Eyes downcast and not daring to meet her gaze, he trudged over to her reluctantly, but when he finally reached her, he couldn't help but sneak a furtive glance at her face to gauge her mood.

Her expression was not, as he'd expected, pitying or disappointed. Rather, she appeared completely serene. Even a little amused, perhaps. Her eyes smiled at him, not in condescension or mockery but with love. He frowned at her, expressing displeasure that she'd find something humorous about his situation, but internally he was relieved. She did not view him with reproach, and that was all that mattered to him at the moment.

"Having some trouble with weaponry lessons?" she remarked playfully. Her voice was sweet and lilting; the perfect pitch. It wasn't too high or too low, and it resonated with a rare, melodious quality. Her singing voice, he knew, was unearthly in its beauty. His lips thinned as he grimaced, reminded again of his failure.

"Maybe," Szayel replied stubbornly, then deflated, casting aside the stupid pride that had gotten him into this situation in the first place. "Yes…" he conceded, grimacing again.

"Everyone has rough days," his mother consoled. She opened her arms, inviting him into her embrace, and after another moment's prideful hesitation, he gave in to his desire to be consoled and leaned into her arms, burying his head against her chest. She held him for a long minute, the two of them just standing there exchanging nothing but silent comfort.

"Remember, you will always be mama's precious butterfly," she finally murmured over his head softly. Szayel frowned again and pushed away from her, looking fierce.

"I don't want to be a butterfly, mother. I want to be a tiger or a bear or something strong. Something no one will look down upon as useless or laugh at," he declared with all the passion his eight year old heart could muster.

"My dear, a butterfly is not useless. Frail perhaps, but not weak as he is so often perceived to be. His beauty conceals the poison in his body. His is a subtle strength, not immediately apparent. But where the tiger and the bear are earthbound, he soars above the rest. He is free. He is the embodiment of change and the vicissitude of life. Do not scorn him for what he isn't, but treasure him for what he is," she said, and the tenderness in her eyes and words undid him.

"I'm not a butterfly," he repeated, pouting, and his mother smiled patiently, a hint of amused exasperation tugging at the corner of her lips. Internally, he found he did not feel nearly as opposed to her special pet name anymore. It was obvious that she did not bestow it flippantly, and that it was significant to her.

"Very well my darling. You are a terrible, ferocious beast who has yet to grow his fangs or claws, but as soon as they are in! Ha! The world had best prepare!" she said mischievously, miming claws with her fingers.

"Mother! Stop teasing me!" he cried, and she laughed. Her laugh was as lovely as her voice.

"Stop being so stubborn then, my little butterfly. If you humor mama, she'll teach you some special skills that even your older brother doesn't know. Skills that you can eventually use in battle," she cajoled. He blinked up at her, eyes wide at the possibility that he might beat Yylfordt to something for a change.

"Really?" he asked breathlessly. She nodded.

"But you'll have to do as I say without complaint," she warned slyly. He nodded affirmation eagerly.

"I will!" he promised, earnest.

"That's my boy," she crooned approvingly. Szayel beamed, his good humor restored. He burned with the desire to make her proud- and to show his father and older brother that he wasn't a disgrace to the family name. But even caught up in his burgeoning ambitions, he was curious about one thing.

"Mama, what are you if I'm a butterfly?" he asked, tilting his head inquisitively. She returned his inquiry with a wicked grin that stood at odds with her elegant, cultured looks.

"Your okaasan is a fox."

For a moment, staring at that eerily toothy smile, he almost believed it.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"-zuka."

He blinked, pulled out of his absentminded stupor by the sound of someone calling his name.

"Shizuka!"

Szayel looked up at the girl who'd drawn him back to the present, a question in his eyes.

"You finished preparing your tea awhile ago," she explained, pointing to the traditional green tea he'd whisked to foam. He looked down in surprise, wondering how long he'd been at it. The motions had become so mechanical to him, he'd lapsed into reverie while still performing his task. His lips formed into a small _oh_, and he set the bamboo whisk brush aside.

"Perhaps you should drink that; wake yourself up. You're always drifting," the girl suggested, and he ducked his head, raising the tea bowl to his lips. Szayel sipped the astringent green liquid, the last of his dreamy inclinations vanishing in the cleansing wake of the drink. He swallowed the rest of the tea quickly, his tongue curling at its bitterness, and made a face. The potent, powdered sencha had never appealed to his tastes. It was too acrid, like medicine. But he had to admit that it served its purpose well in grounding him. Memories could only take him so far.

Gathering up his supplies, he went to wash his dirty bowl and thanked the other girl with a respectful bow before leaving the room. He drifted through the halls until he reached the instrument room, where he retrieved one of the many kotos. It was a bit more worn than most of the others, however, he knew it had a warm resonance when played and liked it best of the lot of them. Carrying it out to the courtyard, he seated himself on the wooden patio steps overlooking the garden and began to play.

He picked out the notes at first; unsure of where he wanted to go with his playing, but gradually the notes composed themselves into a melody that drifted over the landscaped courtyard, filling the quite spot with subdued but beautiful musical strains. And as he played, his mind again began to wander.

His thoughts were wistful at first, dwelling mostly on his past, but the lingering taste of the tea on his tongue soon colored these recollections a cynical shade. Truly, if he was a butterfly then he was a butterfly now. Pinned wriggling to the walls of the House, and each passing year as he'd beat his wings uselessly, he'd shaken off more of the powdered scales that allowed him to fly. By now, too many had been lost and his wings were too scarred for him to ever recover his flight, even if he somehow managed to escape from this captivity.

His fingering slipped and the notes soured on the wind, but instead of abandoning his activity, Szayel changed the tune to match his darkening mood. He teased a poignant lamentation from the strings that echoed the wry misery he felt. It was to this funereal tune he played when another found him, bearing a message.

"Shizuka, there you are! You are to prepare yourself and head to your room. Someone has requested you," the woman informed him, looking relieved that she'd located him. Szayel let the music fade and stood unhurriedly. She gestured for him to hand her the koto, and he relinquished the instrument to her care with more than a little reluctance.

"Hurry," she urged him, flapping her hands at him as he departed. He lengthened his stride as much as his clothes would allow him. His wooden shoes clacked against the floorboards more noisily than he liked. He was for the most part properly attired, but there were a few additions to be made. When he reached his room, he quickly fixed his hair so that it lay perfectly in order. His makeup he reapplied so that it appeared bright and fresh, and he smoothed the wrinkles from his kimono. The last piece he addressed was the blindfold, and he took this up regretfully. He hated blindfolding himself this way, but at the same time he drew comfort from the anonymity it offered. He would not have to know the faces of his clients, and as long as he wore it, they would not know him truly either. He could hide behind the impartial screen it offered.

Szayel stared into the mirror for a moment, and his amber eyes gazed back dispassionately. Irony quirking his lips, he raised the cloth and tied it over his eyes. The prostitute then turned and walked over to the bed, but just before he could climb up and arrange himself on the blankets, he heard the door open and close as another entered the room. He straightened, abashed that he'd been caught unprepared.

"Not so collected this time, are we?" his visitor observed. Szayel stiffened at his voice. He recognized it, however vaguely; he'd seen to this man before. The prostitute filtered through his hazy memories, trying to match the voice to the man. The feeling of sword calloused fingers on his skin sparked remembrance, and he shivered involuntarily. It had been a month, but the memories surged back clear as ever.

"No. We're definitely shaken. I see you remember me."

Szayel nodded faintly, recalling the injuries that had taken so long to fade. Much longer than usual, but he was a fast healer, whether for better or for worse. On the positive side, he easily recovered from treatment that would lay up others for a week. The dark side to this was that it made him easy to abuse as evidence of his maltreatment quickly vanished, and he thought it pointless to go to the effort of communicating these injuries as he so rarely had repeat customers.

This man seemed to be one of those unfortunate exceptions. He derived entertainment from the fact Szayel let his composure slip so early, and the fingers that stroked his cheek moved down to his neck, slipping under the cloth of his kimono to grip his collar bone possessively. He turned him so Szayel's back faced towards him and leaned in, hot breath tickling the nape of his neck. His skin prickled unpleasantly, but to his credit, he did not shudder again, even when the man licked the bare patch of skin.

"Not going to tremble for me anymore?" he murmured as his hands found Szayel's obi and began to undo the complicated folds. What took him several minutes to tie with the aid of another was undone in less than one, and he let the long cloth drape to the ground, an elegant pile of embroidered silk. The man's hands slipped around his waist from behind, reaching inside of the kimono and brushing down his milky skin like sandpaper. The embrace was almost tender, but it did not last long. It was only his teasing Szayel before he began in earnest. Sure enough, he shoved him onto the bed an instant later with a sharp laugh. He sprawled onto the mattress, ungainly, and the man followed him shortly. Szayel managed to pick himself up before the client seized his wrists and pinned them over his head. His kimono flared open, revealing his chest and part of his stomach.

"You weren't so bad for being handicapped in a few important regions," he purred, tracing down his front with his free hand, "And I'm bored again. Incredibly bored."

He flicked one of Szayel's nipples playfully, watching it stiffen in response. It twinged, aroused and sensitive, and the other mirrored the sensation in anticipation. But the man did not touch it, leaving it to wait in vain for the stimulation he bestowed so casually on the other. It left Szayel feeling unbalanced and longing for him to make both ache with equal pleasure, a desire he reviled in the back of his mind.

"Shizuka's your name, right? I asked around for you this time."

He nodded, then uttered a muffled groan as the other man bent over him and licked the pink bud he'd teased with his fingers. And he didn't stop there. He continued downward, opening the kimono as he went until all of the prostitute's body was exposed. Szayel's cheeks bore the beginnings of a rosy flush, and his lips were parted slightly as his breathing quickened. The customer paused above his thighs, and if Szayel could see him right then, he knew he would be gloating.

"How about we play a game to make things more interesting? I'll bet that I can make you tremble again in five minutes. If I don't succeed, I'll play nice tonight, but if you lose…"

He let the statement hang; they both knew what would happen if Szayel's willpower caved. Szayel licked his lips nervously and nodded, unnecessarily; it wasn't as if he could refuse the offer.

He swore he could hear the man smirk as he took his length into his mouth and sucked. Szayel's eyes flew open beneath the blindfold as he instantly hardened. He clawed at the bedsheets, resisting his body's urges, but it was futile. A few more pulls and his body spasmed, rolling up to better mold himself to the other man. His client let go and reached down, circling the base of his cock to deny him his release. Beneath him, his body chook uncontrollably, muscles straining upward and taut with expectation.

"What a pity," the man remarked with false sympathy, and Szayel felt hot tears of frustration spring to his eyes. And… still he longed for the other to continue, to his deepest shame. He felt lips press to his forehead, then his own slack mouth.

"Don't look so heartbroken," he cajoled cheerfully, "I'll give you another chance. Eight minutes this time. You can't speak, but you can still mouth words. In eight minutes, I'll get you to mouth my name and beg for more. Same rules apply from the first round."

He let go then and Szayel came, coating both their chests in a milky, white fluid. He squeezed his eyes shut, mortified at the high he derived from this act. Swiping up some of the cum with his fingers, his client pushed his legs back mockingly. Szayel knew what he planned with those damned digits, but before he put them to use, he paused again.

"Ah," he said thoughtfully, "It just occurred to me that getting you to say my name would be very hard if you don't know what it is, and that wouldn't be fair at all. You may call me Nnoitra."

Nnoitra. Szayel clamped his jaw tight and readied himself, but knew in his heart that it would only be a matter of time before that resolve broke. He was at a disadvantage; in eight years, he had grown accustomed to being the one servicing the other. This role reversal was atypical; he had little experience in this sort of thing. And after the man broke his stoicism, he would again resume his sick games. There was no way to win, except maybe if he could lose himself in his dream world…

But Nnoitra was inside him then, pulling him down to earth back into his own sinful body, and escape soon became a distant concept. Four minutes later, he had him silently whispering his name.

"Shame," was all Nnoitra said before cruelly obliging him.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Mmm... yes. Flashbacks. There is little I hate more than a random flashback in the middle of a story. Hence, I put mine at the beginning. Very purposefully. In this chapter, you get a taste of Szayel's past. And you will get more. There is in fact two stories going on simultaneously in this tale as you will discover.

Enough crap from me. I don't know why I bother writing these. owo Read and review as always. D: Or you'll wake up in feudal Japan in Szayel's place. Kol kol kol. Trust me; you don't want me in control of your fate. n_n

~Tinari


	3. Enojo

"Stand in front of the fire, Szayel. Yes, just like that. Reach out to it. Can you feel the warmth?"

Szayel stood a few feet away from the stone hearth, legs set slightly apart, and extended a hand towards the leaping flames. His mother stood at his back, instructing him patiently. The heat of the fire warmed his small palm to an uncomfortable temperature.

"Yes, but fire is always hot. What's the point in feeling? How is this supposed to help me beat brother?" Szayel whined.

"Have patience. You promised to do whatever I asked you to without complaint," his mother reminded him gently. The boy frowned, but obeyed.

"Good," she said soothingly, "Concentrate on that warmth. Feel it. Feel the bath of energy it takes from the fire to your hand. You know, you too have fire inside, warming you. It also flows along paths. But for the moment, try to focus only on the fire and its energy."

He furrowed his brow, trying to sense the invisible connections his mother assured him were there. He even closed his eyes, hoping that if he did so the task might somehow become clearer in his blindness; but nothing changed. Whatever she wanted him to seek, he could not find. He felt nothing.

"I can't do it! I don't even know why I'm doing it! This is stupid," he declared, opening his eyes. His lips twisted down into a sulky scowl, and his mother placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I am sorry my heart. It was unfair of me to ask this of you. You are still so young. It isn't your fault," she murmured in her musical way.

"But what are you even asking me to do?" he cried bitterly, only knowing that he'd failed at something else, even if he did not know precisely what and his mother said he was too young for it. She sighed, enfolding him in her arms for a moment to calm him. When she let him go again, she crouched so that she was level with him when she addressed him. He liked it when she did this. It made him feel more important, or at least respected.

"Your okaasan was trying to teach you the basics of magic. The easiest and earliest manifestation is control over fire, so I started you there," she explained.

"Magic?" he echoed, disbelieving, "But people can't use magic."

"Not ordinary people," she said with a sly smile, "But you are mama's special boy. You aren't ordinary."

"That isn't true. I failed at magic!" he pointed out sourly. _Just like everything else_ he thought to himself.

"Little butterfly, give your gift some time to develop. You are young yet, and these things take time. To tell you the truth, I tested you five years too early because I suspected your gift was especially strong. Usually, the test is not done until thirteen years of age. You are still growing," she told him, pinching his cheek affectionately. He winced, rubbing the now tender spot, but seemed happier.

"Really?" he asked in a doubtful tone. She grabbed both cheeks and stretched them playfully between his hands, to his embarrassment.

"Don't be so self deprecating, Szayel. There will be many who look down on you for what you look like, but you are stronger than that! Have a little confidence in yourself, my love. Even your brother had to overcome the initial criticism aimed his way due to his appearance" she chided, and he nodded stiffly. Satisfied that he wouldn't make anymore self-critical comments, she released his cheeks.

"Splendid. I will test you again when you're twelve, how does that sound? And until then, I'll teach you other skills. I am going to have a word with your father about your education; he's being too obstinate and heavy handed. A traditional approach is not the right way with you, any fool could see."

"I don't want him to think I'm weak!" he spoke up, alarmed.

"You aren't weak. Your strengths merely lie in other places. I know for one that you have an eye for strategy; your teacher tells me so. Your training should emphasize those talents you have, not squander them," she replied. He nodded, still upset that he would be treated differently from his brother.

"Alright…"

"Good boy," she said, and he offered her a tentative smile.

"You said you'd teach me other skills too?" he prompted after a moment. His mother's eyes crinkled up mischievously.

"I did," she said.

"Will you teach me then?" he asked.

"Only if you are willing to learn," she replied.

"Of course I want t learn!" he said proudly. She smirked at him.

"I did not ask if you wanted to learn, but if you were willing to," she said teasingly. He was about to ask her to clarify her ambiguous words when a messenger interrupted them.

"Lady Tsukiyo," the man said, bowing respectfully at the doorway, "Your presence is requested."

"Of course," she replied, rising graciously and allowing him to lead her away. Just before she left the room, she smiled at Szayel.

"We will continue our lessons another day," she told him, then stepped into the hall. He nodded after her earnestly, and wondered what she'd meant by her mysterious words.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Szayel exhaled as he turned off the tap and the spray of hot water stopped. Pivoting on the slippery tiles, he walked across the washroom to where he'd set aside his towel and yukata in the dry area. Another girl who'd finished showering, Amaya, wolf whistled to his back.

"Hey Shizuka, how about stopping by my room some time?" she called jokingly to him. He didn't even turn around to respond, just rubbed his thumb and index finger together over his shoulder. The girl laughed.

"Who'd be paying who?"

Toweling off, he glanced over at her coyly and smiled. She grinned back. Nothing would ever happen between them, or between him and any of the other girls, and so they could jest this way so casually. Just a year of this work was enough to strip one of the physical desire for it. He'd had eight. And in any case, it went against policy.

"I guess you're fine enough to pay for," she finally conceded as she too went over to towel off, naked body glistening with water. Steam rose off her skin, still smooth with youth. He felt nothing as he watched her dry herself. Instead he dressed, ran a brush through his hair so it wouldn't tangle later, and waited for her to finish. She did so shortly after, and they picked their way down to the red room together. The other girls, or many of them, were already there, arranged in a circle on the floor with pillows beneath them. The circle widened to admit the newcomers, though a handful did groan, unhappy about having to move.

"Oh good; Shizuka's here," one said, and Amaya cast her a look of feigned outrage.

"What, no welcome for me?" she remarked sarcastically. A few of the girls tittered.

"When you learn how to massage as well as he does I'll gladly sing your praises too, Amaya," replied the one who'd commented on his arrival, "Now get your lazy ass over here bitch and make yourself useful!"

Everyone laughed, showing an honest, earthy side only their circle would ever witness. It was so out of character for a young woman of the time period, but these girls were old at heart, aged by their experiences. Szayel crawled over to the woman, whose name he recalled was Sumire, and began to work on her lower back. Her eyes closed in bliss and she wriggled her shoulders happily.

"Oh god I needed that," she professed, "I've been cramping so bad. I thought I would die."

"Shut up Sumire. You're always monopolizing Shizuka and we're all in the same boat," called Torako from across the room. Sumire made a face at her.

"Yeah? Well you can walk over here and take him from me yourself," she taunted. They promptly engaged in a verbal sparring match that drew increasing commentary and support. The rowdy bout was terminated when Torako stood, minced over, and dragged Szayel after her back over to her spot. Sumire protested the theft, but didn't feel like expending the effort to retrieve him.

"No fair Torako!" she whined halfheartedly.

"You said I could take him so I damn well took him," Torako replied fiercely as he set to work.

From her corner, Kikyo moaned and buried her face in a pillow.

"Someone who isn't bleeding like a stuck pig… go and fetch some more willow bark mint tea from Mistress please…"

"Amaya, you're free. Go get some more tea," Sumire said, flapping her hand at the girl. Amaya frowned.

"But I just got off work. Send someone else."

"Well _somebody_ go, or Kikyo's gonna crack and murder someone."

They all nodded gravely, then snickered. Mikka was voted to be sent, and the lithe girl left them with an exasperated look, though she wasn't too displeased about playing maid. Only with the fact that her period hadn't coincided with the group's. Hers would probably follow shortly, unlucky girl. It was always better to bleed with the others; it earned one a sense of community, and the communal antics were amusing enough that the women who weren't on their periods came down to the red room during the peak of each month to chat and commiserate, even if it meant running errands.

Living like this, listening to all the crude stories and seeing with his own eyes the feminine mystique demystified, it was little wonder he held no attraction for them. These were, by circumstance, his only friends. He understood how they thought, what they felt, what made them happy or angry or swoon. He could not consider them as romantic interests, or things to be one; not when he shared a more intimate relationship with them than even their customers. From laughing over virgin boys to crying over pregnancy, he shared in every aspect of their lives. Every aspect except abuse. That was a Pandora's box no one cared to open. By mutual unspoken consent, it remained closed and forever would, except for the cases that, by sheer horror, could not be ignored. But these were very, very rare.

And of course they teased him and made their innuendos and generally poked fun at him for being different, but at the core they too thought of him the same way. In their eyes, he was male only in physiology. His soul, they joked, was a woman's, and the Gods had only erred on two unfortunate accounts when putting him together. Thus they accepted him into their circle, and as long as no lines were crossed, Mistress didn't care. She didn't really consider him a man either.

Mikka returned carrying a pot of tea in one hand and a basket in the other. She placed these both in the middle of the circle, and the girls in less pain quickly surged forward to inspect the new package.

"Sesame seed honey cakes and an paste mochi," Mikka explained to the less mobile girls as an enthused squeal went up. The goods were quickly divvied up, with a cake and a couple of mochi going to each. Szayel paused in his massaging to eat, and when Torako looked back and him pointedly, he stared down his nose at her disdainfully and smacked her rump. The other women laughed as he stood and moved back to his original spot to finish his sweets.

"Got what was coming to you, Torako."

"Aww, shut up. You're just jealous he didn't spank you."

A heated debate ensued, which Szayel stayed out of mostly because he feared being interrogated for his personal opinion on the matter. Kikyo meanwhile seized the tea, poured herself several cups, and tried unsuccessfully to tune it all out. However, the lively chatter died down when a messenger arrived unexpectedly for him.

"Shizuka, someone has requested you."

He looked up, startled. He never got called twice in one day. Looking down in consternation at his thin yukata, he pursed his lips. There was no way he could prepare himself in time. The girl who'd been sent to notify him winced sympathetically.

"I did tell him you were… occupied and weren't in the best condition to see him, but he insisted if you weren't _indisposed_ that he'd have you since most of the girls are."

Szayel nodded his head to show he understood and smiled faintly, miming ambivalence. _What can I do?_ he seemed to say. Standing, he bid farewell to the girls who complained about the "bastard stealing their Shizuka," but when he was out of earshot- or so they thought –they speculated in furtive whispers who the client could be. Szayel shook his head in amusement and followed the other woman through the complex and over to his private room. Before they reached the door, she stopped him and in a hushed voice explained the situation.

"You're going to have to go as is. He's actually already inside, waiting. Got impatient because most of the girls he wanted are off tonight, so when he decided on you he was very insistent. He might be in a bad mood. Try to humor him. Oh! And I almost forgot."

She took a cloth strip out of her kimono sleeve.

"Mistress gave me this to give to you. Said you'd be missing it. Good luck."

She waved at him and scampered off, presumably to report back to the front desk and follow up on any other requests. Szayel glanced at the tie in his hand, grimaced, then donned it. It would not do to tarry, not when his customer was waiting and possibly in a foul mood. Regretting his inadequate presentation, he composed his face and opened the door. He bowed towards where he knew the bed to be as he entered, letting a coy, apologetic smile touch his lips when he straightened, and walked with a steady, fluid gait across the carpeted floor; confident but appropriately unassuming.

It was his voice that stopped the prostitute. That voice; unmistakable. Scornful, arrogant, and undercut by a wry band of dark humor. _His_ voice, the voice that sent chills through him when he dreamed. Oh god _no_. It surely wasn't… but it was. Szayel faltered midstride, smile fading from his lips, which now parted in shock and horror.

"Aren't we looking a little bare today, Shizuka?"

Szayel squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to calm down, but the despair he'd felt at his hands in their last meeting was overwhelming. It overwhelmed him even now.

"Ha. I see you haven't forgotten me. Am I memorable?" he teased. Szayel nodded, playing along. "Come over here. Sit."

Szayel tiptoed over to him, absolutely tense with nerves, and when he sat down next to him gingerly, Nnoitra pulled him onto his lap. He hunched there, paralyzed, as though expecting him to do something. When Nnoitra touched him, he didn't flinch, but it was still very obvious he was frightened.

"Your hair… it's still very damp. You were showering recently," he observed, running a hand through his half-dried hair, "I really did catch you at a bad time. Since you showered, you had been serving someone else not too long ago."

A meek nod was his reply. Nnoitra _hmm_ed, seemingly displeased.

"All that damp hair will get in the way, and I can't stand how it feels, so until then we'll have to figure out another form of entertainment. Ah. I know."

His sandpaper hands slid up his thigh, and Szayel shivered reflexively in unpleasant anticipation. Nnoitra paused, gauging his reaction. When it seemed the prostitute would do nothing else, he patted his cheek and spoke again.

"My, you're so scared. I'll admit I'm rather rough with you. Maybe even a little sadistic. Hmm? What do you think?" he remarked lightly. If he was looking for a response, he got none. The man continued.

"Actually, I'm considerably crueler to you than the other women here. And it partly because you male and partly because you're mute. I wouldn't be able to take advantage of the others like this. They'd raise a fuss. But you… for whatever reason, you don't say anything. And it isn't because you can't speak."

He paused again, as if waiting for some sort of reply. He probably was. But though Szayel listened, he didn't respond. Nnoitra seemed to expect as much, for he continued unhurried.

"Everyone good's taken ill today. But you will never bleed that way. I knew you'd be available. This will be the third time, and to tell the truth, I feel like playing again tonight. I haven't since our last time, three weeks ago. You probably had a lovely set of bruises afterwards, didn't you? Are you going to tell this time? Going to expose me?"

His voice was deceptively gentle, but he could not entirely hide the malicious undercurrent of his words. It was obvious he wanted an answer this time, for his tone became more charged with his last two questions. Szayel considered them seriously for a long moment, but ultimately shook his head. There was a short period of very heavy silence.

"No?" Nnoitra finally said, and Szayel could tell his playful mood had shifted to something darker. Or maybe it hadn't really changed. Maybe it had always been that way, only hidden beneath an irreverent front. He seemed angrier, more violent and apt to lash out unexpectedly. Szayel's anxiety levels rose.

"You wouldn't report me. Not to save yourself. Even if I brutalized you… Not a word."

Apprehensive, he nodded. Nnoitra chuckled, low and dangerous.

"Is that so?"

Another weighty pause, but this one was even briefer. His anger was palpable; thick and suffocating.

"Unbelievable. Are you that much of a coward to not stand up for the few rights you do have? Are you so spineless that you won't speak out against this treatment? Because it is wrong. It is sick and twisted and we both know it, but you're the victim so you could at least try to do something about it. What would it take? How far would I have to go to make you confess? What would I have to do, short of inflicting serious wounds?

Or maybe you think you're being brave? Stoic? Should I hurt you now and see? If you're cowardly you will plead for your life, but if you are stoic, you would hold fast in your will even when threatened with death."

Szayel listened to his tirade, but as he sat there and absorbed his scornful words, he himself began to grow angry. A coward he was not, and he didn't have the willpower to be a stoic. He did not keep his silence because he was afraid, but because he did not see that he had much to gain from telling due to circumstance. This man did not understand his situation.

"So that's really all there is to it. You're weak, you're useless; you're filth. Trash in the street. Absolutely nothing. You cannot be called a man, nor even a woman; you aren't a person. Just a dirty whore. May the gods make barren the wretched womb that bore you," Nnoitra finished disdainfully.

Szayel snapped. His irritation piqued to rage as the man brought his mother into his slandering. He thought so little of himself, but she did not deserve to be lumped with him. She was beautiful, caring… His okaasan, who'd loved him unconditionally even when it seemed no one else had. He would not let her name be sullied.

Though he was blindfolded, his eyes flashed fire and steel. His hands were clenched into fists so that his nails bit into the soft flesh of his palms. His shoulders shook with silent fury, and his pretty lips curled down into a savage snarl. If he had a voice, he would be decrying his persecutor in heated tones, but deprived of this medium, let his anger seethe in the air around him, just as telling as the spoken word.

Nnoitra grabbed his chin and turned it so they faced each other, then with his other hand, he reached up and removed the blindfold. Szayel saw his face for the first time, and was surprised to see it filled not with contempt as he'd thought, but satisfaction.

"That's a beautiful expression you're making," he said quietly, "Its honest. I can feel how much you hate me, and that's good. It means you aren't completely hopeless."

Szayel narrowed his eyes and looked away, confused. He did not know what to think of the other's change of heart, though he quickly realized that the man had been baiting this reaction out of him. Nnoitra turned him again, not letting him escape confrontation, and he was forced to meet his eyes. His expression became sulky; one of irritation rather than rage at being tricked.

"Hey, hey. Don't look away. I've only just seen your eyes," he teased, examining his features closely. Szayel squirmed internally under the scrutiny, unused to being the object of such intent observation. Some of this must have showed in his face, for Nnoitra let go of his chin and gave him a little space to breathe though he didn't stop looking. Szayel glanced at him sidelong from beneath lowered lashes, dubious of this sudden change in mood.

"Why do they blind you?" he asked unexpectedly, "You have both eyes. You aren't blind, and you're prettier with the blindfold off."

Szayel blinked, then looked down at his hands, a flush creeping into his cheeks. Nnoitra noticed and grinned, lying back on the bed. He pulled Szayel down on top of him so that their bodies lay flush against each other and they stared into each other's eyes. Szayel's blush deepened as he grew self conscious.

"Its because it makes it easier not to think of you as a human being, isn't it?" he said, answering his own question, "Makes things impersonal, for you and me. No emotional attachment. No mess."

Szayel nodded, and Nnoitra reached up to run a finger over his cheekbone.

"Crazy…" he mumbled, and Szayel questioned him silently with his eyes. He noticed, looking down at the man, that one of his irises was pale and cloudy; he was blind in his left eye. A spark of pity for him ignited, but it was very small and died quickly. There was enough in his own life to be pitied without sparing some for this strange man who was cruel but oddly considerate.

"Its crazy," he repeated with an unfathomable expression, "But you're even prettier than most of the women here. As wild as that sounds, since there are some gorgeous prostitutes in this whorehouse. And I know for a fact my preferences lie squarely with the opposite gender. But you… you don't make any sense. I don't quite know what to make of you."

That made two of them then. Szayel's confusion showed clearly on his face as he listened to Nnoitra talk. The man was showing a remarkably thoughtful side, and there was some tenderness beneath his typical harsh nature. He could not bear to accept this human side of him, for it threatened to undermine the hatred he'd built up towards him and all like him. No one had ever spoken to him as much or brought his emotions so close to the surface before. His face right now, he knew, was an easy book to read. Sure enough, Nnoitra read the turmoil in his expression and his lips curled into a suggestive smile.

"You know what? I don't think your damp hair will get too much in the way. And it smells good… like flowers. I've given you a long enough break."

His hips shifted up, grinding provocatively into the prostitute's. Through the thin material of the yukata he wore, Szayel could feel the telltale hardness of his arousal. Thus it came as no surprise to him when he soon found their positions reversed, with Nnoitra on top pressing him down into the mattress. However, the larger man did not begin immediately. He stared down into Szayel's face, his expression enigmatic.

"Show me you deserve to be treated better," he husked, "I might just be humored enough to cut you a little slack."

Szayel gazed up into those impenetrable eyes, trying to understand the man behind them; whether he really meant what he said, or whether this was another of his games. He seemed to like betting, gambling. Yet, not a one of his bets were in danger of failing. He set it up so he'd always win; so he'd always be the one in control. And, in realizing this, Szayel knew whatever answer he gave would be twisted by the other's biased interpretations. He could not win here.

Rather than try and cater to his whims, Szayel closed his eyes and turned his head away passively. Nnoitra did not seem to find his answer agreeable, for the air around him grew heavy and sullen. The wild, violent aura from before was returning, seeping out of him with poisonous reproach.

"I see," he said, his voice again steely, "And here I thought we were making some progress. I guess I was wrong about you after all."

He took him savagely then, all his good humor having dissipated as if it had never existed. And it was all Szayel could do to keep up with his pacing, his face twisted in agony as ghosts of screams tore from his lips. Perhaps Nnoitra had shown him a mysterious new side that evening, but as if to compensate, his treatment was the roughest it had ever been. By the time the man tired of him and left, he could only gaze blankly at the ceiling; too battered even to hobble down to the baths.

* * *

**Author's Comments:**

I look back on my writing and think two things to myself: the contrast between Szayel as a child and Szayel as an adult (barely) is really quite depressing. Because in his past, he still has hope for the future, but then I have to switch back to writing that future, which is his present now. And in the present, he has no hope whatsoever. I really do enjoy writing his human aspect with the other House girls, just to show that he isn't completely gone.

The second thing I think is; dear god, Nnoitra is moodswingier than a female on PMS. He's got... issues. Which you'll all get to read about eventually, whenever I get to writing that. Simply said, Szayel isn't the only one who has a complex complex. His mood swings and comments are not completely random; I've always got a design behind what I type up. Remember that for the future; I turn obscure sentences into plot pivots for the hell of it. Anywho, I liked showing a bit of the motivation behind his cruelty, even if its only a snippet that won't make sense just yet. But it all will over time. I like to build on things if you can't tell. Which you may not, since I don't expect people to understand how my mind works... Meh...

Review if you like what you're reading please. I'll... umm... *Thinks of an adequate bribe or threat* ...get back to you on what I'll do for you if you do review. D: Oh, I know. It will keep me sane while I'm on this internship and encourage me to write chapters even when I get back dead tired instead of taking a nap. Damn you eight hour work day... I'm too much of a slacker to do this. x_x So be a good Samaritan? *Shameless begging* xD This fic needs moar reviews/critiques. Well anyways... till next time. :3

~Tinari


	4. Sangre

He rapped the doorframe lightly with his knuckles, a pit of apprehension coiling unpleasantly in his stomach. He needn't have felt so nervous, for his mother quickly beckoned him in.

"You may enter Szayel. I know it's you," she called in her lilting tones. Szayel swallowed nervously, then pushed the sliding door open and stepped in. His mother knelt in front of a table, writing out a series of complicated kanji characters he did not yet know on a scroll. As he entered, she finished, sprinkling sand over the ink to dry it. She turned and offered him a soothing smile, which set his jumpy nerves to ease, and patted the floor beside her. When he came over and sat down, she spoke.

"I expect you've come about the special skills I promised to teach you."

Szayel nodded.

"Yes," he said tentatively.

"Well, have you come with an open mind? Will you listen to what I have to say before judging?"

"Yes," Szayel repeated, this time a little more impatiently. Lady Tsukiyo sighed and smoothed a hand over his cheek.

"I'm going to teach you medicine."

Szayel stared, not quite believing his ears.

"What?" he asked dumbly.

"Medicine. Herblore. Anatomy. Poisons and remedies and how they all work on the body."

"What!"

She watched him calmly as he worked himself up into a tantrum, for a tantrum he did throw. This response only served to irk him further. He wanted a reaction from her, some emotion he could use to justify his own. But his mother's passivity nullified much of his passion.

"That's stuff for monks, not a noble!" he finally cried, his face twisting into an indignant glower. When she did not immediately reply, his expression darkened, but she would not acknowledge him. They sat in silence that way for the next fifteen minutes until Szayel worked up the humility to compose himself and ask her forgiveness.

"Mother, I'm sorr-"

His voice choked on the y as his pride strangled the apology before it could leave his lips. The boy fumed for another minute, then tried again, only to find his voice cut off again. By this point, the silence was oppressive and made all the more awkward by his unsuccessful attempts to break it. At last, shame facedly, he managed to squeeze out a different concession.

"I'll… learn," he muttered, eyes downcast as he waited for her to say something. But instead of speaking, his mother acted. She reached down and took up his arm, baring the pale underside of his wrist to the light.

"What you don't realize my heart, is that everything is related. Every discipline… connected by slim, invisible wires. You already have a difficult road to walk because you are different without making things even more complicated for yourself. By learning medicine, you'll learn the body… its strengths and its failings. And in the heat of battle when your opponent is physically stronger than you, is it not true that you must rely on skill and cleverness to win? If say, you knew to hit a nerve in his shoulder that would cause his arm to go numb, wouldn't you stand a better chance of living? Szayel, this is just another skill set that will allow you to survive."

Szayel's face fell; he knew that she was right. She was always right, and he'd been out of line. The child finally managed to offer an apology, free of stuttering.

"I'm sorry, kaasan," he murmured, looking up ruefully.

"No my love, I'm sorry," she said. She still hadn't let go of his wrist, but drew a silver knife from the folds of her robe. It was a lovely item, inlaid with lapis lazuli and mother of pearl and engraved with the lunar insignia of their house, but out of place here. He started at the sight of it, looking into her eyes with confusion. They were filled with sorrow.

"Mo…ther?" he asked, an edge of worry coloring his voice.

"I'm going to show you something that I think will help make some things clear. But I am sorry… truly sorry for bequeathing you with this blood, my little butterfly. I would have wanted for this to be a gift, but instead it seems I've only brought upon you a curse."

In a brisk motion, she slashed the blade across his wrist. Szayel felt a sharp pain, and he closed his eyes instinctively as the fine edge sliced through his skin.

"Don't look away, Szayel. You need to see. Only then will you understand the magnitude of your heritage."

He opened his eyes… stared down with morbid fascination at the garnet line of blood that welled to the surface. And as he watched, his mother set the bloody knife aside and kissed his cheek.

"Life is painful my dear one, but it will be especially so for you," she whispered sadly into his ear. The child shuddered, eyes filled with the sight of his own blood.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

_Sakura petals_

_ Trailing from a narrow bough_

_Whisper not goodbye_

_But fragile, flutter_

_ Guileless on the springtime breeze_

_Snow from a blue sky_

He looked up after the last brush stroke, watching the ink spread in the eyes of the women around him who stared in captivated silence at the words he'd painted on the page.

"Amazing Shizuka… how can you do this so well? It's like you're a real courtesan," Sumire finally murmured, looking at her own verse with a wince.

"Imagine if he could speak. I wonder if he'd be as eloquent speaking as he is writing?" Kikyo remarked, accepting the brush from Szayel and dipping it in the ink well before concentrating on her poetry.

"He doesn't have a chance to say stupid things when he's writing. I bet he'd sound just as mundane as the rest of us. Just wait Shizuka; I'll find something you're bad at," said Torako with a playful grin as she nudged the male. He smirked back at her, prompting her to blow a raspberry at the pink haired prostitute.

"Nyah. Make all the faces you want; when it comes right down to it, you can't actually say anything back," the woman taunted. Szayel's smirk deepened as he snatched up a spare brush and wrote in bold black letters across a blank page,

_Oh, can't I kitty?_

She scowled at him while the other girls poked fun at her.

"The tigress has been declawed," Sumire observed mischievously, and Torako rolled her eyes.

"Enough with the name puns. They aren't so clever. You meanwhile are awfully chatty for someone who's supposed to be mute, _Shizuka_."

He stuck his tongue out at her in an equal show of immaturity, and the other girl broke off into a crooked grin.

"I kid. It really is a pity you can't speak; haikus are best when read aloud by the person who writes them, though it's beyond me why we even practice. None of the jackasses here have the patience to read poetry; most of them are only interested in one thing."

The ring of girls chuckled at this, though Umeko did pipe up with a rebuttle.

"That's not true for everyone," she protested with a pout, "My Kaito will listen to my haikus and my music."

"That's 'cause you're so flat chested, you've got to make up for it in other ways," Torako informed her smugly.

"Well at least I can write."

"Hey! I'm not as bad as Sumire!"

"Don't bring me into this," Sumire grumbled as she crumpled her paper and threw it at Torako.

"You seem to have a talent for pissing people off, Tora-chan," Kikyo remarked as she finished her verse and eyed it critically.

"Some talent," Umeko said dryly, nudging Szayel with a wink, "You should write something for your customers some time."

His face fell, and an awkward silence settled over the room. Umeko, realizing her transgression, backpedaled.

"I- I mean if you get a regular. Its kind of nice, to do other things together…"

She trailed off, looking stricken. The other girls milled restlessly, unsure of what to say to break the heavy atmosphere. It took Szayel himself to smile weakly and offer her a reassuring look to ease the tension, even though inside he still felt the sting of her unintentially cruel remark. It was known that he didn't often get repeat customers, and the ones he drew were not the types to waste time on the other pleasantries the House offered. Well, that was just reality. Nothing to dwell on.

It was actually a relief to him when he was called, and he bid farewell to the women with a formal bow, hiding his disappointment behind a counterfeit smile and graceful motions. The haiku he tucked into his sleeve, unwilling to part with the verse he'd labored over. Though he made it look effortless, a lot of consideration had gone into it, and he was reluctant to leave it behind. Entering his room, he made sure everything was arranged properly, placed the haiku on his dresser, then knelt in the middle of the room to wait for his client.

Just feeling him walk in, he shifted in his formal position uncomfortably, already identifying the man from his distinctive aura; the smoky scent that rose from him, so much unlike most of the pampered, perfumed rich men, and the vitality he gave off, tainted with an angry undercurrent. But… this was wrong. It was so soon. It couldn't have been more than a week since his last visit. Szayel stiffened, guarded as he approached, then felt his rough hands take him by the arms and haul him to his feet unexpectedly. He lurched a little, but the other steadied him.

His blindfold was peeled off without warning, and Szayel squinted myopically as light flooded his eyes, blinking back spots in his vision.

"I thought we'd already established that the blindfold comes off. For future reference, it stays off, Shizuka."

_Future reference_. The prostitute looked up, surprised, and the taller man returned his uncertain look with an arrogant smirk.

"Please the customer first and foremost, isn't that right? Especially if they're a regular patron. Then you bend over backwards to accommodate them."

The white ribbon of cloth dropped from his hand and fluttered to the floor, and his fingers curled in his hair, teasing a tress loose from the pins and ornaments. His mood didn't seem so enigmatic today; he was being playful, but it was free of the malicious feeling of the last time, and it was still clear what he wanted. Leaning into him, Nnoitra pressed his lips to Szayel's, gradually deepening the kiss until the prostitute was forced to cling to him for support, breathless. Tongue swiped at his bottom lip mockingly before the man moved down to the hollow of his throat, nipping the ridge of flesh above his collarbone and drawing it into his mouth. Szayel squirmed as he bit harder, and Nnoitra looked up. One lilac iris, the other milky and sightless, examined his face for a reaction and got mild irritation in response. He seemed find this amusing, for he picked him up and carried him over to the bed.

"Don't like that, do you? Being marked? Somewhere underneath all that submissiveness, there's pride, and I'm going to drag that out of you."

His lips brushed sensuously over his earlobe before he bit this too, but he didn't linger there. Kissing his jaw, he mouth slid down his neck, finding new patches of skin to target as he worked his way down. Meanwhile, his hands busied themselves in his hair, pulling out the decorations and twining luxuriously in the pink locks. However, he paused in his activities long enough to make another observation.

"That's right, its been a little under a week since the last time. You must still be so colorful."

He stroked his chest through the cloth of his kimono tauntingly.

"How careful you must be to hide this from the others, but lets have a look shall we?"

Szayel's blood chilled and a shiver ran up his spine at these words. Panic lit his eyes as Nnoitra moved to slip the kimono off his shoulders, and he shook his head, arms coming up between them defensively. Nnoitra's eyes narrowed as he was, for the first time, presented with active resistance. But Szayel didn't care that he was provoking him, only that he shouldn't see. In the end it was futile. Nnoitra twisted his arms behind him painfully and pulled the cloth down in a swift motion.

It wasn't what he'd see that Szayel dreaded, but rather what he wouldn't, and the thick silence that followed in the immediate seconds after he lay exposed and shivering on the bed confirmed his worst fears.

The man trailed fingers over his abdomen, face inscrutable, met with the sight of unmarred skin. The bruises he sought were not there.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked with deceptive quietness. Szayel lay helplessly, unable to explain. His client frowned, rubbing a thumb over his stomach, pressing… presumably in search of a powder covering or some lingering tenderness. He found none, and his frown deepened to a scowl.

"What the fuck is this?" he demanded, catching Szayel's eyes in a fierce expression, "There's no way you could heal from something like that so quickly. There would at least be faint, yellowed bruising still, but not nothing."

He sat back, confusion and anger at that confusion plain on his face, and Szayel pulled himself back up into a sitting position, drawing the cloth back up around his shoulders. Nnoitra's eyes flickered over to him, and his lips twisted into an unpleasant sneer as he brushed his cheek with his fingertips.

"So how long does it take? If I cut here, how long would it take for you to lose the scab? The scar?"

He pulled a knife from the sash that circled his waist, flipping it tauntingly in his hand with an ease that bespoke familiarity with the weapon. Szayel's eyes widened at the sight, and he moved backwards, away from him. Nnoitra caught his shoulder, holding him still as a twisted grin spread across his face at the prospect of this new game.

"Maybe I should find out?"

The knife was slid free of its leather casing, and the low light of the room shone off its wicked edge and magnified it in his eyes. Szayel watched as he raised it until the flat of the blade rested against his cheek. A twist of the other man's wrist, and the razor edge would bite into his skin. In that moment, something in the prostitute snapped. Golden eyes narrowing, one hand came up and bent the wrist of the hand that held the knife to his face back sharply; the other flattened and struck the other man under the breastbone, aiming for the diaphragm, which he knew would wind him. The knife dropped from Nnoitra's hand and his eyes bulged as he tried, but failed, to breathe. Taking advantage of this moment of weakness, Szayel picked up the knife he'd dropped and held it up to the taller man's cheek, mirroring the action he'd taken just moments before. A bitter smile distorted his mouth as he tapped his face with the flat of the blade, and for the first time, Nnoitra looked a little frightened at the sudden change in the pink haired man.

But then a shudder ran through Szayel, and he withdrew the threat of the weapon. He didn't have too much longer before Nnoitra would recover and exact revenge. Meeting his eyes evenly, amber gazing into lilac and white, he raised his wrist and positioned the knife over it. Silent laughter issued from his lips as he slashed across the pale surface, feeling the old but familiar burn as blood brimmed to the surface, running down his arm like a river overflowing the banks of his skin.

"…the hell?" Nnoitra gasped as he snatched the stained knife out of his hands and stared at the prostitute uncomprehendingly. "What is wrong with you? You some kind of masochist?"

Szayel proffered his wrist as explanation, and at first, Nnoitra only gave him a look of utter disgust. However, after a moment, his eyes widened as he observed the point of Szayel's entire demonstration. Even as he watched the smaller man's blood run in ribbons down his hand, the wellspring of those crimson rivulettes was closing. In the span of a minute, the injury had clotted, and a scab crossed his wrist in a thin, burgundy line.

"How…?"

The prostitute shook his head, unable to explain. He touched his throat to remind him of the silence that took from him his words. Still in a state of shock, the other man lifted his wrist, examining it with surprising gentleness. Szayel felt his rough fingers pass over the newly closed cut, then the rest of his arm, searching.

"No scars, but the irreverence with which you did that… you've done it before. So you don't scar either?"

He shook his head, confirming this fact, and Nnoitra let his bloody arm fall again.

"Then this is why you don't tell? Because the evidence will all have disappeared by that point?"

Szayel hesitated, unsure of how to reply to this. His recovery rate differed depending on the type of injury. A cut or something that drew blood healed the fastest. Bruises took longer, though they were still much faster, taking days instead of weeks. The tenderness disappeared very quickly, healed by the blood spilled from the ruptured capillaries, but his body still had to metabolize and reabsorb that blood. In the end, he nodded cautiously, and Nnoitra _hmm_ed a little at this reply, realizing there were certain nuances he couldn't convey with a simple yes or no answer.

"Then these…" he said, leaning in to tap the red marks he'd bestowed on his neck, "How long? Days?"

Szayel nodded and held up two fingers.

"Two days…"

Nnoitra frowned, and Szayel was reminded of a sullen child pouting over being denied something he'd wanted. He tensed as Nnoitra pressed him back down again, realizing this short reprieve was reaching its close. And indeed, Nnoitra soon had him pinned down quite effectively. He shrugged off his haori and began unfastening the ties of his hakama. Szayel closed his eyes, feeling sick as he felt those hands move to his body possessively.

"How long do broken bones take?" he murmured teasingly in his ear. The prostitute stiffened, going rigid at the thought, and Nnoitra laughed.

"Just kidding. That's a little too obvious. But if I can't leave a lasting brand on you, then I'm just going to have to do it more frequently to make sure it sinks in. I'll call again this time next week. You'd better be free."

Nnoitra spread his thighs, bending down to lick up the inside of his leg, and Szayel's pulse skittered in unpleasant anticipation. He seemed, for whatever reason, to like this better; making him squirm and react rather than being the one to receive such pleasure. He supposed, as his mind grew hazy with chemicals, that it had to do with his need for control, for when he did let Szayel work on him, it was very regulated. He wasn't a bed partner, he was a tool. A puppet to make gasp and whimper and moan beneath him in accordance to his whims, and he dutifully danced to the tune he drug from his body, his breathing and heartbeat setting the tempo.

It wasn't all that unexpected when things became more painful. This was the revenge he'd expected, that Nnoitra was getting around to. But he wasn't quite as brutal as usual, as if to say that he knew he had all the time in the world to extract it. Days. Weeks. As long as he chose to come. Confirming this fact, the taller man husked into his ear,

"Didn't think you'd get away with that rudeness, did you? My wrist still hurts, and I didn't like the feeling of not being able to breathe. So you're going to pay up for that show of little show of insurrection, although it does make me curious. What else are you hiding, Shizuka, behind those pretty, wordless lips and fragile body?"

_Nothing you'd ever find out._ Szayel clenched his hands as he felt him drive into him mercilessly and tried to transcend the pain unsuccessfully. Here was the hypocrisy; Nnoitra had unearthed some of the pride he'd sought, only to find it distasteful and punish him for it. Here was the loaded gambling again, the skewed game that favored the other completely. There were no odds, only inevitabilities that changed according to his moods.

No. Nothing he'd ever find out. Because he'd never have the patience to learn and treat him as more than just another beautiful diversion.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

A late birthday present to my readers. I thought to myself, as I spent Monday musing over how I'd gained yet another year, that I wouldn't be receiving any material presents this year due to the fact I am away from family and friends on this internship. And around eleven pm, an idea occurred to me. Why not give someone else a present instead? One that would be as fun to make as to give, thus becoming a present for myself as well? I decided that I wanted to engage in the ambitious endeavor to update all my fics by the end of the week. Of course, work got in the way during the week proper, and I only began Saturday evening. But I bring you this chapter, borne of what amounts to an alnighter. I stayed up till 5:30 am writing, though when the sun came out, I decided I should probably get some sleep. But on to the real author's notes.

In case any of you caught the fact Szayel heals quickly in the earlier chapters, here is the explanation for that. Mmm... yes. The story is getting less and less realistic, isn't it? Well, it was meant this way from the start; I'm just showing my true colors now. No, Szayel isn't a masochist in this fic, (Even if I believe he has masochistic tendencies in Bleach) and the significance of his blood will be explored further.

The name puns alluded to in the beginning of the chapter are a result of me being bored. Torako means tiger girl/tiger child. Ko is a common suffix in girl's names, and the kanji means child. Tora is tiger, as many of you probably know. Hence, tiger child = tiger cub = kitty. Obviously. (Jk. Feel free to hit me)

Ha ha. I also get to burst your bubble in this chapter, for those of you who had the reaction of "Baww... Nnoitra actually cares." Well, no. Not really. He just projects certain insecurities of his own onto Szayel, which lends him the appearance of empathy. Sure, he's not a total jackass because very few people are, but he's still insufferably arrogant and egocentric.

Read and review if you like. ^^ Mariposa has been getting more and more lately, so I'm happy. Honestly guys, I love reading your comments. It encourages me to update sooner if I see someone cares enough to say something. Sorry for the long AN section this time. x_x And advance apologies for any typos I may have missed in scanning for them; the bulk of this was written in the wee hours of the morning.

~Tinari.


	5. Cordero

"Mama."

"Yes my dear one?"

"Why are we being so secretive?"

"Because people might misunderstand, Szayel."

"Misunderstand what?"

Szayel shivered, holding the lantern closer to his body in hopes that the heat that filtered through the slatted bamboo panes would warm him. It was a vain hope, the comfort he gleaned more psychological than tangible. The lamp illuminated his small body, giving him the appearance of a frail wil o' the wisp or foxfire in the gloom.

"Bring the light closer, love. I need to be able to see the door."

Grudgingly, he raised the lantern so that it cast its light upon the entrance to the small hut they stood before. Lady Tsukiyo withdrew a key from the folds of her robes and inserted it into the lock. It opened with a click that sounded loud to Szayel's ears, magnified by his nerves, which perceived their current activities in the dead of night to be something he could get in trouble for. He was convinced that everyone could hear it, even if they were surrounded by nothing but forest and distant from the main house.

Sliding the door open, she motioned for Szayel to step in with the lantern, and he followed her, little light bobbing in the dark to the pace of his footsteps. She took the lamp from him promptly and carried it over to the table, leaving him alone in the darkness until she lit the wicks of the other candles and oil braziers around the room, and then at last he stopped shivering as the room was lit with a mellow amber glow. But his arms never relaxed from their defensive position wrapped around his chest. If anything, they tightened.

On the table in the center of the room lay a life-sized doll, and the sight of it gave him chills. It was androgynous, its features plain and gender neutral. And though it possessed no particular details to make it stand out, he nonetheless got the impression that it was an incredibly life like reproduction. It seemed so… proportioned. Lacking in the lines and scars and wrinkles and scars and blemishes that a person would collect in a lifetime perhaps, and the "skin" was very obviously cloth. But the way it was made… it seemed so right. He stared at it with a morbid fascination until his mother called him over. Then the trance broke and he startled.

"Come over here Szayel. You're going to do more than just look," she said, and a shudder ran through him as he walked over to inspect it.

"What is that? Why is it here?" he asked, inexplicably repulsed by the inanimate rendition before him.

"Just a doll, sweetling. No need to be concerned. You'll be working with it in your lessons."

"What for? How will this thing help?" he asked.

"You'll see," she said mysteriously, bringing a hand to rest over where its heart would be if it were real. A spark leapt from her fingertip, a small brilliant ember of gold that vanished just as soon as it had sprung to existence. A blink, and he would have missed it. And then he did blink, and something incredible transpired. He watched as color spread across the doll's white cheeks and a blush sprang to its lips. It stirred, opening eyes he swore hadn't been there a moment ago, and breathed. A soft thumping sound announced the presence of a heartbeat.

Szayel stepped back in fear of this strange apparition before him, but his mother's voice drew him back.

"Do not be frightened little butterfly. What you are seeing is not real. It is but an illusion that I am manipulating. The doll still lies on the table, as lifeless as before."

The life went out of it then, and he saw that it was indeed as she had said. The thing was not alive. Swallowing, he crept back over to the low table with its strange cargo, looking up at his okaasan apprehensively. She gave him a reassuring smile.

"You understand now why we do this in secret? It would frighten people. They wouldn't understand. They don't know the limitations of magic. You cannot bring something to life that isn't alive, for that requires a price to be paid more dear than any should be willing to sacrifice."

"Will I be able to do illusions?"

"Some day, my heart. Simple illusions at first, such as this one. More complex ones later perhaps."

He observed how the doll revived beneath her hands again, moving with an artificial life it didn't really possess. That was all in his head. And she'd called this a simple illusion? He scrunched up his face, trying to see through it somehow, but failed. It seemed pretty difficult to him.

"What's the point of this though?" he asked, "Aren't we supposed to be learning about the human body?"

"We are. And this will be our first model."

"First… model?"

"There is only so much you can learn from books and illustrations, Szayel. At some point, you'll have to practice on a real person. Before then though, it will be better to practice on something like this mannequin where the consequences are not so dire if you fail."

"Fail? At what? Aren't we just learning medicine?" he asked, panicking a little. Though Lady Tsukiyo's words were spoken soothingly, there was an undeniably dark undercurrent to them that set him on edge.

"Medicine deals with…" she began, and her beautiful face took on a note of tragedy, "Medicine deals with the realm between life and death, sickness and health. You will not see to the healthy, but to those who are already gravely ill. These skills will not bring you happiness. You will become a tool for others, someone to be used."

He looked from his mother's solemn face to the mannequin on the table to the shelves that dotted every wall of the hut. They were filled with reagents, bottle upon bottle of labeled herbs and substances. One held an assortment of mortar and pestles, another a collection of knives, some delicate and slender, some brutal looking and tarnished with age and mysterious stains. Then the needles, the syringes and clamps and stacks of neatly bundled cloth. The thread, ties, restraints. And row after row of books and scrolls along the walls, small library unto itself. The sight was anything but reassuring if these were tools of the medical trade, he did not know that he wanted to learn them.

"Why teach me?" he asked, wan faced, "If I'll become a tool for others to take advantage of, why teach me?"

"Szayel…"

Her tone becoming both anxious and angry. Why did he have to suffer? Why was it he that had to sacrifice?

"Because in any scenario, that's what you would be. If you were a warrior, do you think your fate would be any different? No. You'd be a slave to war as surely as you are a servant to this. And it's in your blood to serve others, Szayel. You cannot escape that."

"In my blood!"

He screamed this and stamped his foot rebelliously, having had enough of this sympathy from his mother. He did not want to hear those words from her lips. She, who believed in him. If she told him he would aspire to no more than servitude, then it would be true. That was not a reality he wanted to accept.

"This blood! The blood that I can't shed? Is this the blood you mean?"

Szayel-"

"Is it?"

"It is!"

Szayel paused mid outburst, temporarily startled out of his ire by the sight of his infallibly patient mother losing her temper. And she did not snap out of her mood; it persisted, the frustration lending her face sharp angles he hadn't seen before.

"It is my darling, the very same. The blood that runs in my veins and yours. The blood of those born to serve and aid others all their lives. This blood is not yours to shed in selfishness, but for those who need it. It preserves itself."

He watched, speechless, as tears filled her eyes and her noble countenance was squandered in grief. Grief he'd inspired, and he felt a pang at the sight, as if he intrinsically knew somewhere deep down that he'd transgressed terribly by eliciting those tears.

"Were you a woman, you might understand better what it is to hurt and sacrifice. What it is to bleed for another with so little to gain by it in return. Men do not know pain. They know war and battle and revenge, but those are selfish hurts. They cannot conceive of the agony it takes to nurse something to life. Life is more painful than death, my love. Infinitely more painful. Women are life givers and you as well. You aren't female. You were never meant to be. You were always my beautiful boy, but you were born to be a sacrifice too. And because of this, you are dearest to my heart because I understand what you will go through."

She'd walked over to him in her graceful way and pulled him to her, as if she needed to draw comfort from him as much as he needed the reassurance that she wasn't angry with him. That she didn't hate him.

"My butterfly, there is power in this blood. It is a noble thing, and not the human concept of nobility. No, it far surpasses that. But in exchange, we cannot keep it for ourselves. Do you understand? You are no menial servant. You are a proud, blessed individual. Do not let anyone tell you or treat you otherwise. I do not wish for this heritage to be a burden but something you can be proud of."

"What is it?" he asked, now tearful as well. Her melancholy had affected him.

"Oh, do not ask, love," she murmured back, "I will tell you when you're older."

"What about Yylfordt?"

"He too… but its so dilute in him it hardly makes a difference. He takes after your father more."

Szayel frowned at this, scrunching up his nose.

"Its not fair. I hate him. He gets all the good luck."

"Don't resent your brother, Szayel," Lady Tsukiyo whispered, cupping his cheeks between her soft, delicate hands, "He will need you some day, as your father needs me. Perhaps you are not the sun of this house, who everyone looks to, but we shadows are just as necessary, ne?"

"I'm not sure I understand, mother," he said plaintively. She kissed his forehead.

"You will, my butterfly, you will. You'll grow your wings some day and understand that this way is harder but no less honorable."

He nodded, pulling away from her, still so uncertain about all that she'd told him. All her cryptic words about shadows and sacrifice and life did not really register with his young mind, only that it didn't sound pleasant and that for some reason, it was intensely personal to her. She was keeping something from him that she would not tell him until he was older, and he suspected it had everything to do with their blood. His eyes settled on the mannequin on the table, which had returned to being just that in her distraction. She said he'd practice on it so his mistakes when he made them wouldn't be so dire. And in that moment, he realized she could have meant only one thing. His body stiffened as a terrible epiphany struck him.

He'd see more death in lifetime than Yylfordt would on the battlefield. A haunting realization at the tender age of eight. Shaken, he turned to look at his okaasan. Really look beyond that lovely face. Search those golden eyes for the specter of pain he now knew would be there. And it was, hidden beneath her typical serenity; only visible to one who knew to look. Eyes hunted by experience; that had seen suffering and death.

He knew he'd have those same eyes.

Lady Tsukiyo seemed to sense his sadness, for she rose and made an effort to lighten the atmosphere.

"I think we'll continue our lesson another evening. Why don't I show you a few tricks instead?"

A ball of blue fire burst into existence in her palm and divided into several tiny spheres. These little lights morphed into a flock of dazzling butterflies, their wings trailing indigo embers. They clustered around him, wingtips barely brushing his cheeks, but they did not burn him. Instead, they were comfortingly warm. One landed on his shoulder, fluttering its fragile wings before bursting into a shower of orange sparks. She wanted him to laugh, he knew. To smile and forget their heavy conversation. But he couldn't, not just yet. There was something else he had to know.

"Mama? Are you happy?"

She stilled, and the butterflies stilled with her, as if frozen. Frozen fire. A paradox. He could see that she'd never been asked the question, or had not been asked it in a long while. Even after she'd recovered from her surprise, there was a wistfulness to her smile that persisted.

"Yes Szayel, I am happy. I am loved by my husband, I have fine things, and I am the mother of two wonderful boys. I am happy."

She wasn't lying. It was just that he got the impression she wasn't being completely forthcoming with how she felt. All the same, he didn't pry. She'd only give him some ambivalent reply and scold him for being nosy. Offering the smile he knew she wanted, he nodded.

"Ok."

The butterflies resumed their flight.

-.-.-.-.-.-

It was both relieving and disheartening to see him arrive. Relieving because he promised he'd return, and with that promise he had a regular. Shizuka turned more profit. Why it was disheartening was obvious; the man was a sadist, and the fact that he was now a regular meant he would see abuse more frequently. And just abuse he could bear, but his treatment went beyond that. It bordered on torture.

The incident with the knife still lingered vivid in his mind, and he knew Nnoitra would not have forgotten it either in the span of a week. No, he doubted it was something so easily forgotten that it would be looked over after even a year. He tried not to dwell on his desperate actions, on the thrilling rush that accompanied the knowledge that he could have killed his tormentor then and there. It was frightening; buried beneath the despair and dispassion that kept him meek Shizuka, there lived another self. A fragment of who he'd been… or perhaps who he might have become given the time and opportunity.

It wasn't good to stand out. Standing out got you noticed. Getting noticed got you killed. And Szayel, despite his narrow existence, wanted to live. It wasn't his realm anymore, the brink between life and death. His sphere was decay; a long and gradual rotting of self. And yet, he found himself inexorably drawn back to that feeling of power that had possessed him however briefly. That intoxicating, dangerous power.

Their eyes met across the room as his door slid open to reveal his tall customer. He'd obeyed his orders to keep the blindfold off, and for the first time he could really appreciate his height. He slouched against the wooden doorframe and still managed to brush the top of it. His haori hung slightly open, exposing a well toned abdomen, and his hair was drawn up into a messy knot held in place by a pair of red lacquered bamboo sticks. The knife- a washizaki from the length of it really upon hindsight -was no longer present at his hip. He almost smiled sardonically at this, but bit back the expression before it could betray him; the other man had definitely not forgotten, and he had left the weapon behind this time so it could not be used against him.

Nnoitra smiled and shut the door, straightening as he walked into the room.

"You remembered to keep it off," he said cheerfully, referencing the absent blindfold. Szayel gave a light shrug, as if to say _of course_. The man's toothy grin widened as he strolled over to the bed, gait unhurried. His motions were so smooth, they were almost oily.

"Miss me?" he murmured huskily as he sat on the edge of the mattress. Szayel looked away in distaste, letting his expression answer for him. Nnoitra laughed, amused. He seemed to like honesty- to an extent. It was better that he didn't pretend to worship him.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't. You can stand pain, but you don't like it, do you?"

Szayel shook his head, agreeing with his statement.

"What you want is someone to treat you equally. Gently."

He reached out and caught a tress of his hair, rubbing it teasingly against his cheek before kissing it. Szayel's skin prickled. This was new. He was keeping at a distance; playing. He felt a fluttering of apprehension in his gut. What did he want this time? What reaction did he mean to drag out of him?

"I'm curious, Shizuka, who you are. What makes you tick. Why you are here and not somewhere else. You showed me a skill before; you know how to fight. You've been trained in some form of martial art to know how to strike so accurately, and you handled my washizaki with efficiency. You are someone, or were someone. Why are you now a whore?"

Szayel squeezed his hands tight, then unclenched them, repeating the action several times. All the while, he looked down at his legs folded neatly beneath him. This was not something he could explain, and Nnoitra knew it. So why did he ask? Nnoitra sighed after a moment, dropping the tress of hair that connected them.

"Since you can't answer, why don't you show me another way? Show me something interesting, Shizuka. I may even forgive you for what happened last week."

Too late. He'd stood out. He'd brought attention to himself, and now he would suffer for it. There was nothing he could show him, for how could he demonstrate knowledge? And he doubted Nnoitra would trust him to work on him. The prostitute shook his head. Nnoitra sneered and slid off the bed, standing up.

"Come on. Do something. Make me hurt; I know you can. Don't you hate me? This is your chance. No repercussions."

Szayel swallowed the nervous lump that had risen in his throat and shook his head. No consequences. It couldn't be true. He was lying; he had to be.

"If you don't hurt me, I'll hurt you," he threatened, a steely glint in his eye. Szayel still didn't move, paralyzed by indecision. It was only when Nnoitra approached him with a menacing look that he reacted, scooting away from him. The taller man's arm snaked forward and caught his ankle in an iron grip that he knew cut off blood circulation. A pained whimper escaped his lips.

"Stupid slut!" he seethed, "Listen when I give you an order!"

The pressure on his ankle increased as the man began to bend it sideways. Panic seized his body. Though the last time he'd said he would not do something so obvious as breaking a bone, Szayel could not tell if he was bluffing now. His expression was set and his eyes narrowed in anger. He was cornered again; driven to self preservation. His foot shot forward, clipping Nnoitra a hit under his jaw that would break it upon contact, but he pulled his blow so that it did not fracture the bone. The agony, he knew, would still feel incredible, and worst case scenario he would accidentally bite off his own tongue, in which case he was at peril of bleeding to death or choking on his blood. Nnoitra shuddered at the blow, entire body going rigid from the pain as he toppled backwards, and Szayel gratefully reclaimed his ankle from his captor's softened hold.

He was unconscious, and would remain so for several minutes. When he woke up, he would have a blinding headache and feel sluggish and off balance. He'd disrupted the energy flow in that region when he'd struck the lymph node under his jaw. Szayel hugged his knees to his chest, hoping against all odds that he would play fair for once and not punish him upon waking. At last he stirred, and with a muffled groan, pulled himself upright clumsily. Almost as soon as he opened his eyes, he flinched, a hand flying to his head to cradle it.

"Hurts like a bitch," he mumbled, casting a violet eye his way. Szayel tensed, anticipating retaliation, but none came. Instead, he got a rueful grimace.

"'d you learn to fight like that? That wasn't a blind kick."

Szayel shook his head. _Not fighting,_ he mouthed, wishing he could get his point across more clearly. Nnoitra seemed to have a knack for reading lips however, for he echoed his silent words.

"Not fighting? What the fuck is it then?"

_Medicine,_ he mouthed, once again wishing he could better explain himself.

"Medicine?" Nnoitra parroted uncomprehendingly, "I don't see how the hell…"

He trailed off as Szayel made a frustrated sound and crawled into his lap, reaching up to jab the mirror to the spot he'd kicked before. Nnoitra's body jerked at the current he knew ran through him, and he caught his wrist defensively, as if expecting further assault. But Szayel made no more moves, only watched the realization dawn in his face.

"It feels better," he remarked, then realizing he still held Szayel's wrist a little cruelly, released it. Szayel rubbed it to get the blood flowing again, and Nnoitra watched him with curiosity.

"That just raises so many other questions, but my head is too sore to concentrate on them," he said as Szayel began to scoot away again. He let him move back a few inches before he reached out and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Like why you let assholes like me push you around when it would be so easy for you to incapacitate us."

Hands pushed him down languorously so that his shoulders nestled in the pillows. He was pleased for some reason; in a good mood despite his headache. Because he'd been presented with a new piece of knowledge? But why did he care? Was he really so bored that he'd resort to conversing with a voiceless prostitute?

"Something broke you. Something before you came here, otherwise you'd never have come."

How true those words were. A flash of pain rippled across his face, and he looked away from his strange client, unwilling to meet his eyes any longer. Lips brushed his throat, breath feathering across his skin and raising an agreeable prickle. The gentle caress evolved into something more intense as lips were replaced by teeth nipping at his flesh. His hands slid under his clothes and roamed his body lightly at first, then more assertively, drawing up the familiar heat. Nnoitra's mouth found his, and his tongue slid in to curl against his inner cheek playfully. Szayel groaned into his mouth as he felt his clothes loosened and his legs spread, and a hot, dry palm sweep up his thigh sensuously. He automatically shifted up into that touch, cocking his hips when he felt Nnoitra take hold of them. Fingers found his hardening member and stroked it, applying pressure to the sensitive organ while he squirmed at the contact, craving more. He was being different tonight; gentler. It was a strange feeling, to be treated with consideration. He found himself reacting more strongly to him than he might have otherwise.

Sensing his more amorous mood, Nnoitra upped the intensity. There was now an urgency to his kissing, no longer just teasing. He devoured his mouth, drawing the soft petal of his lower lip into his, bruising it, but it was a sweet pain that excited him. The fingers around his shaft clenched tighter, beginning a pumping motion that burned through his groin. He bucked his pelvis, straining into some, any contact more solid than what he felt now, and brushed Nnoitra's hips through the cloth of his hakama. The other man actually groaned slightly, and Szayel felt him pull away, hands and mouth leaving his body. The loss shivered through him with a wistful pang, leaving him cold and lonely.

But the lapse didn't last long. It wasn't Nnoitra pulling away because he'd let his composure slip, but to untie his hakama and loin cloth and cast them aside. He returned, grinding his hips into Szayel's. The friction flared into a needy burn, but Nnoitra's fingers again restricted and encouraged him, maddeningly relentless around his cock. Deprived, Szayel sought release elsewhere. Licking up Nnoitra's chest, his tongue found a nipple and sucked it into his mouth, letting teeth scrape against it as he released it with an audible pop. A faint gasp escaped Nnoitra's lips; he was used to being in control, not the other way around. Szayel licked the now tender, hardened bud, hands gliding down that broad expanse of back until they rested on the taut muscle of his butt. His fingertips dug into the skin as he curved his body up to rub against him like a cat.

It was too much for Nnoitra. Without preamble, Szayel found his legs tossed over the other man's shoulders and Nnoitra's hardened cock pressing at his entrance. The entry hurt, with no preparation. He whined, gritting his teeth as Nnoitra thrust into him fully, hips rocking at a frenetic pace which he struggled to meet. His inner walls tore as they accommodated his client's size, squeezing tight around the alien organ and alternately mending and breaking again as his blood healed him rapidly, but all the same he felt satisfaction at being filled properly. Nnoitra was getting better at this, as his body attested when he hit the sensitive bundle of nerves against his prostate, and the pain became secondary to the orgasmic high he rode. Nnoitra released him when he jerked with a cry, and white, hot fluid splashed between them, making both their chests slick. Growling, Nnoitra bit his shoulder, and a moment later came inside him.

They both breathed raggedly as Nnoitra pulled out and allowed himself a moment of weakness as he collapsed on top of Szayel. The prostitute felt him relax against him with surprise; he was never so completely worn out after sex. There was always a lingering tension in his body, as he never truly let himself go. Watching the tall, black haired man close his eyes free of that tension, he felt a curious emotion. Wonder. It was an airy feeling, like floating; or perhaps that was the afterglow he'd been told about but never fully gotten to experience. In a moment of impulse, he reached up and touched that silky, dark hair, letting his fingers comb through the cool tresses luxuriously.

Nnoitra opened one eye, violet iris examining his face, which had suddenly frozen at being caught in the middle of such an impertinent act. One did not touch a warrior's hair so casually. It was a status symbol, not something to be played with idly. He realized he'd been holding his breath when Nnoitra smirked and removed his hand from his hair with his own.

"So even you, jaded, stoic prostitute that you are, can be a willing fuck."

He kissed the fingertips of his captured hand, tongue snaking out to lick them, and Szayel felt a flutter in his stomach. His eyes widened; that simple action had stirred a reaction in him. He, who'd been in the trade for so long.

"Amazing, the difference that results from a change of approach. You crave attention. I had only to treat you a little more like a lover and less like an object for you to open up so readily."

Szayel closed his eyes, chest feeling heavy. Shock elicited a subtle tremble from his limbs as he realized he felt hurt. Hurt at these words. No, he wasn't supposed to feel emotional pain anymore. That was supposed to be dead, killed by the physical pain.

"You're not so stoic after all. You're just hiding yourself so you don't get broken any more than you already are."

Yes… damn it _yes_… and he'd let himself be damaged. Let himself open up a little, caught off guard by his unexpected generosity. A ploy that had proved more devastating than any physical torment he could inflict. The knowledge that he'd been drawn out of his shell a little only to be crushed was bitter. Because he'd still been playing his game, only more subtly this time. He was always playing his game. Szayel wished he could curl up and escape, but Nnoitra still lay on top of him, his body an anchor to the present. His eyes felt hot, and he draped the back of his free hand across them to cover them.

"Going to cry?"

He shook his head wearily.

"Why not? You want to, don't you?"

Another head shake. Not really. Crying was a form of admission that this had truly injured him, and he didn't want to admit that, especially not to himself.

"What hurts more? The kindness, or cruelty?"

He felt the hand covering his eyes removed so that both of them lay in Nnoitra's grip. That deceptively gentle grip. The tears spilled over, shamefully, truthfully; a hot flood down his cheeks that smeared his paint. They ran pink and gray.

"I like this face. I like seeing you cry like this. Just like the anger, it's a beautiful expression, because I'm the cause of it. I brought these tears."

He licked a salty track off his cheek, replacing the wetness of tears with the dampness of saliva.

"Mine," he whispered, and finally climbed off of him to fetch his clothes. Szayel drew his knees up to his chest, huddling around them, eyes still blurring with saline tears. Both paused in their respective activities however as a pure, lilting voice accompanied by the dulcet notes of a koto was raised in song from down the hall. Umeko and "her Kaito." He'd heard them before in the past and secretly envied them, but now more than ever their happiness smarted and sent a melancholy pang through him. A pang he'd always criticized. He should not envy them. Umeko would have her heart broken some day by her ill advised romance. One did not fall in love in this profession. But she was still new to it. She'd learn.

Glancing over at Nnoitra for his reaction, he saw that the man was listening, rapt. There was a quality to her voice few could match; her singing was beautiful, but it was also suffused with emotion. The love she felt for her client sounded hauntingly in every note, and this candidness made it all the sweeter and more complex. After a minute, he seemed to stir from a daze, and he looked over at Szayel with an odd expression on his face.

"You can't sing, can you," he stated quietly, looking thoughtful.

Szayel fidgeted, considering his answer. That… wasn't entirely right, but…

Nnoitra continued before he could dither anymore.

"Can you play?"

He nodded.

"Do that next time. I want to hear if you're any good," Nnoitra remarked, then finished dressing. Szayel's breath hitched, and he fisted his hands so that the knuckles showed white. Why… why did he have to toy with him like this? The fluttering in his stomach was back, and he resented it.

"Until next week," his tormentor said at the doorway, then left him alone with his disturbing thoughts. An aria to his misery, Umeko's honeyed, joyous voice filled his ears from down the hall.

* * *

**A/N:**

By this point you will have noticed that all my chapter titles are in Spanish, the reason being the Arrancar in the canon series have a Spanish theme to them, I know Spanish, and I decided to carry this over into Mariposa. Also, it makes the chapter titles a little more subtle for everyone who doesn't know Spanish. For those of you out there who are fluent or even semi fluent Spanish speakers, my apologies. These must be painfully obvious.

Actually, I consider them to be painfully obvious as they are. The first four you could have easily guessed, so I didn't say anything. This one... is a little more difficult, which is why I pause to translate it. Cordero means lamb in Spanish. I'll let you draw your own (probably correct) conclusions now.

Hmm... what to say? I guess I depressed myself writing the memory scene in this chapter and had to stop for a day. As a side note, they aren't flashbacks per se since he isn't actively remembering them at the time. More like snapshots into his past that I give. I subsequently weirded myself out with the fluff that happened in this chapter. It was unexpected. As such, you get my first honest to god lemon scene... by complete accident. Enjoy, I guess?

Read and review if you like! Especially my elusive readers who never say a word. Seriously guys, I don't care if you think you'll sound "stupid when you review" or if English isn't your first language or if it is and you still have issues with it... Say something so I can stalk you. D: I'm a nice person; I don't bite. Honest. I'm only a bitch in my writing to my characters. *Rants* Ok, enough from me. :3 Shoo, until next time~


	6. Promesas

"The subcutaneous anesthetic, Szayel. It must be administered soon."

Szayel nodded, his fingers flying over to the tray with its syringes and picked up an empty one. Filling it with fluid from a bottle he kept near at hand, he bent over his patient, feeling terrified. The man was strapped down to the table firmly, but he worried that he would start flailing and make him drop the syringe or cause some other error.

"The airshot, Szayel."

His eyes widened at this reminder, and his hands trembled as he drew the needle back, depressing the plunger so that a thin line of clear liquid spurted from the tip. He'd almost forgotten. He could not afford to forget in a life or death operation such as this. The syringe now free of damaging air bubbles, he slid the needle under his patient's skin and injected the anesthetic.

"Now hurry. Do not panic, but make haste. He's dying."

Even before she'd prompted him, his fingers had picked through the row of knives arranged neatly beside him, selecting a small and slender but extremely sharp blade. He brought it to bear against the skin of the man's chest, hesitating a moment before he made the decisive incision.

Peeling back the layers of his skin was a strange experience. To expose the gleaming, pulsing viscera of a human being to the light felt profane. A sight human eyes were never meant to see, and he'd surely be stricken blind by the gods for this transgression. His patient twitched underneath him; despite the topical and subcutaneous anesthetic working to numb the region, he still felt the knife slice through his body. That wasn't a feeling anyone could ignore.

He clamped the flaps of skin so that his chest cavity was clear to work on, then picked up the most delicate of his instruments; a slender probe and an ultra fine blade his mother called a scalpel. Sweat formed on his brow as he bent over the man, and anxiety twisted his insides nauseatingly.

"Do not hesitate, love. Remember the diagrams."

Szayel swallowed, forcing his shaking hands to still and his breathing to even out, though he could not slow the pounding of his heart, which beat sympathetically with the heart of the man he worked on. _Thump thump._ Their body's rhythms were in tune. He saw where he needed to cut; in his mind's eye, the diagram his mother had shown him was as vivid as the palpitating organ before him. It looked inflamed; wrong, and painful. And he could fix this. He could make it better.

The man groaned. Szayel's eyes narrowed as he gripped the scalpel with a steely determination. He would have to work quickly but skillfully. Not with haste, but with deftness. He took a deep breath, positioned the blade, tensed his arm to make the incision…

… and his hand slipped at the last moment, not making a fine, controlled slice but plunging into the muscle. The man spasmed as blood spurted from his heart to splash Szayel across the face. He tasted copper and salt on his tongue and staggered back from the jerking figure on the table, clutching his head and squeezing his eyes shut. It was only when he began screaming that his mother took pity on him and banished the illusion.

"Szayel… open your eyes my butterfly. Remember that none of this is real," Lady Tsukiyo said in a soothing voice.

He didn't stop screaming or clutching his head, fingers buried among the roots of his rosy hair. Her words barely registered with him; he was lost in his own world, where his lungs choked with the stench of iron and the agonized writhing of the dying man on the table was burned into his retina. He could still feel the sickening warmth of his blood spattering his eyes and mouth and cheeks…

His mother grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a sharp jerk that startled him out of his illusory nightmares.

"Szayel! Look!"

He opened his eyes, screaming dying to a feeble whimper as he obeyed and saw his nightmare for what it truly was; a motionless dummy on a table, free of blood and expressionless. It was not dead. It had never been alive to begin with. Shuddering, a sob tore from his lips and he threw his arms around his mother. She held him, making gentle soothing noises and comforting him while he calmed down.

"I don't want to do this anymore, mama. I don't want to. I killed him mama. I failed. I-"

"Hush my darling. You must not lose heart. Such an operation is extremely rare and complex, and you will likely never have to attempt it on a real person. Remember that you are young and have much to learn."

"But I killed him. I killed him," he babbled into her chest, repeating the words brokenly.

"My love…"

She raised his teary, snot streaked face and wiped away the products of his misery on one of her lovely sleeves. He hiccupped, feeling ashamed that he'd made her ruin her clothes. She didn't seem to think anything of it however, completely absorbed in cleaning him up and easing the horror that haunted him.

"The only way to improve is to practice. When you are confident in yourself, you will not make as many mistakes. No one can be perfect, Szayel. Remember that. It may bring you peace later. For your sake and the sake of others, have confidence in your abilities. Then you will not have to dwell on whether your patients may live or die, for without you, they are surely dead."

"Mama…"

"I am pushing you, Szayel. I am pushing you harder than I need to because I believe you can learn. Your brother is a prodigy with the sword, ne? I believe you can equal or surpass him in his skill with the sword in this field. If nothing else, think of it as catching up to Yylfordt."

His lower lip trembled as he took over the task of cleaning himself up, but she didn't rise, not until he seemed stable. Only then did she walk back over to the doll. That intolerable mannequin. Feeling dread weigh his footsteps, he followed her over to his patient, staring down at its blank countenance.

"What now?" he asked, subdued.

"Something simpler. Something you will likely be called to deal with in your lifetime many times. But with this one, you cannot hesitate."

"What will the scenario be?"

She hesitated, then sighed.

"A victim from a battlefield."

With a wave of her hand, the mannequin sprung to life, already screaming. Szayel paled at the sight of what remained of the man's right arm; a twisted stump below the elbow. His stomach bled freely from a sword wound.

"Prepare a gag so he does not bite off his tongue," Lady Tsukiyo ordered calmly, and he jerked, coming to from his mortified transfixion. Nodding, he snatched up a wooden bar and set it between his teeth. The wood was a supple one so he would not crack them when he bit down, but large enough to fill his mouth so he could not bite around it.

"The arm must be cauterized."

He froze, giving her a panicked look.

"Cauterized?"

"He'll bleed to death otherwise. The injury is too great."

The child shuddered, fingers jerking over to the torch he'd prepared at the beginning of their lesson. A stick with a thick strip of cloth wrapped around it. His hands trembled as he removed the decanter from the alcohol bottle and poured some of the clear fluid onto the cloth, then thrust it into the brazier he kept handy. It lit, burning orange-yellow, and he carried the torch over to the man, whose muffled shrieking sent ice through his veins.

"No hesitation," his mother reminded him.

Gritting his teeth, Szayel brought the fire to bear against his patient's arm, and the smell of charred flesh rose to meet him.

-.-.-.-.-.-

It was so hard to wait for him when their last meeting still pained him, an ache in his chest that had only dulled negligibly during the week. Yet nonetheless, he sat dutifully, koto in his lap, awaiting the arrival of his client. He'd steeled his heart this time, raised his guard so he would not be played the fool again. To be hurt in such a manner twice… he did not think he could bear it. So when Nnoitra entered, he merely dipped his head in respectful acknowledgment, burying his pain.

It did not take him long to realize something was different tonight. He did not smile or otherwise act playful. No, a darker aura surrounded him. His eyes were narrow, lips twisted into an upside down crescent and thinned in barely leashed anger. Violence emanated from his tense posture, and his brooding expression promised ill intent.

"Put that down and come over here," he ordered tersely, and Szayel obeyed. There was a time and a place for obstinacy, and this was not one of them. He had the feeling that if he refused, the tenuous bindings on that anger he restrained would snap. Laying down the instrument, he slid off the bed and pattered over to Nnoitra.

Something was shoved into his hands abruptly and he looked down, apprehensive. From the weight and feel of the object, he had a pretty good idea what it was, and sure enough, it was Nnoitra's washizaki. His eyes widened, panicked as he looked up to see Nnoitra untie a katana from his stash. He did not unsheathe it, but brandished it at the smaller man nonetheless.

"You know how to use that, right? Fight me," Nnoitra commanded, and he sounded absolutely serious. Szayel felt his mouth drop open, and he closed it quickly, shaking his head vigorously. This was madness! He dropped the weapon, toeing it away. Nnoitra's violet eye glittered dangerously in response.

"I'd pick that up if I were you."

Szayel shook his head again, refusing, and Nnoitra's eyes narrowed to slits.

"Have it your way."

He lunged forward without warning, sheathed blade coming in to hit him in the side. Instinct took over as Szayel dived away from the blow, but his kimono impeded him and he tripped, falling gracelessly. His hip protested as he fell on it, jarring the bone, and he barely had time to reach out and snatch up the washizaki to fent off the next one. His arm shook, numbing as he blocked Nnoitra's downward swing, and the taller man seemed amused. He let him rise and orient himself before he swung again.

This too Szayel blocked, shockwaves shivering through leather and metal to jar his arm, but the next one he could not step back to avoid in time. Restricted by his clothes, it hit hum fully in the stomach and he doubled over in pain, dropping to his knees as he struggled to gain his breath back. He felt the tip of Nnoitra's sword under his chin, lifting it up to the light, and found himself staring up into his smirking face.

"Up," he ordered arrogantly, "We're not finished yet."

Szayel grit his teeth and batted the katana away. At Nnoitra's scowl, he dropped the washizaki and began to strip, casting off his kimono and obi and leaving only the thin undergarments. Comprehending his actions, Nnoitra stepped back and waited for him to finish, grinning unpleasantly when he rose again and adopted a posture he'd learned in his swordsmanship lessons so many years before.

"Give no quarter and ask none, Shizuka," Nnoitra advised him before he lashed out again. Szayel was immediately forced to roll back on his heels, swaying to evade the strike. While the taller man pulled his broad swing, he darted in under his guard with the short sword, aiming for his ribs. But Nnoitra was faster than he would have imagined; he barely ducked in time to avoid a clout to the head that would have made him reel. Smacking him across the shins painfully instead, Szayel rolled away from Nnoitra's kick but failed to stop the hit to his shoulder blade. He gasped, reaching up to reassure himself it wasn't cracked while he blocked him with his other arm, shifting the washizaki to his second hand.

"You're ambidextrous?"

He nodded and darted to the side, striking Nnoitra's sword hand with the weapon. The taller man winced, and his subsequent retaliation was weaker. Szayel wasn't. Drawing courage from this, he slid past his guard to land a hit across his hip. Nnoitra hissed, taking his sword up in both hands, and sent him crashing backwards with a vicious blow to the head that caused him to temporarily black out. When he hit the floor, he was jolted back into consciousness, but the world spun upon opening his eyes. Things appeared blurry, and there was a ringing in his ears he couldn't shake. Concussion, he diagnosed as he pulled himself upright painfully.

"Stand, you cocky slut."

There was a rasping sound, like metal scraping leather, and he rose, swaying. He shouldn't stand; one wasn't supposed to stand when they had a concussion. There was a risk that he could fall and aggravate the injury.

"Thought you were getting the upper hand? Thought you'd get arrogant, bitch? You're nothing. Draw your weapon."

With a start, he realized what that sound had been. Nnoitra had drawn his katana. Dread froze his insides.

_He's going to kill me. Truly, I've angered him and he means to kill me._

"I said draw it!"

With shaking hands, he pulled the washizaki free of its sheath, holding it up protectively, but it was a paltry defense. His vision wasn't clear, his balance was shaky, and he couldn't concentrate. The prostitute despaired.

And then Nnoitra moved, a dark blur, and he felt a sharp line of pain open up along his stomach as he sliced up his abdomen.

"Dead," Nnoitra pronounced.

Something stung his throat.

"And again."

Szayel's hands jerked and he dropped the short sword, feeling up his body to assess his injuries. They were shallow cuts, the both of them. Not enough to kill; only cause pain. And on another man, scar. He sensed Nnoitra sheathe his sword and stride over to him, whimpering when fingers dragged him brusquely to his feet by his hair. A brutal slap across his cheek quieted him, though caused his concussion to flare, and he clutched his head as he felt a migraine strike.

"Remember bitch; I am your master."

He nodded quickly, scalp screaming in agony, and Nnoitra dropped him disdainfully. Szayel curled up into a fetal position instinctively, even if it only forced the blood out faster, but his body soon stemmed that flow, scabbing over quickly. Nnoitra let him lie for a few minutes before he grew bored of watching him shiver and kicked him lightly in the ribs.

"You promised to play tonight, remember?"

Oh god… he wasn't going to hold him to that promise after all this… was he? But apparently he was, for the next kick was sharper and more insistent. He hauled himself upright and crawled over to the bed, clutching at the blankets to assist him while he stood. His breathing was labored by the time he managed to climb up, settle himself, and pick up the koto, only to set it down again as the world spun vertiginously.

"Play!" Nnoitra commanded, temper flaring, and Szayel dipped his head weakly, reaching for the instrument. He faltered however, for his eyes fluttered shut and he lost all orientation as he fainted, tilting sideways. The taller man watched him for a minute as if not quite believing him to be unconscious, then began to shake him roughly, rousing him from his stupor. Szayel groaned as he came to, flinching away from his touch. Through the pain, he recalled what the other man wanted and reluctantly picked up the current source of his torment.

But what to play? He was in such pain that he could not concentrate on the notes, yet if he didn't, he knew he'd soon be in far more. Swallowing, Szayel began to pick out random notes instinctively, playing tentatively at first, then with greater purpose as he shut his eyes and focused on the feel of the music. And gradually, it dawned on him that he was playing no improvised melody as the chords resonated familiarly with him, but an old tune he'd learned in his childhood. A lullaby his mother had used to sing him when his frustrations with Yylfordt and his day in general ran highest. The realization made him hesitate for a moment, faltering over the notes for the briefest of instants, but he pressed on. It was probably one of the only things he could play right now without error because it was so ingrained in his mind. He did not have the option to be choosy. And playing it, he could almost forget some of the pain he was in or his audience.

It was such a simple song, as all lullabies were. Something gentle and soothing, that could be learned by heart in a sitting and carried with one for the rest of their life. Nothing complex, to awe the listener of the player's skill; it was actually rather repetitive. But the emotion it contained, a lifetime's worth of nostalgia distilled into an unpretentious pattern of notes, was inspiring in its own right, and combined with the softly melancholy tune… he made the strings vibrate, waver with that inherent sadness, the feeling of loss for a childhood he'd never experienced. And as he played, he began to sing.

It was humming at first, just a soft, musical thrum to accompany the instrument. But it soon diverged from the koto's tune, weaving a countermelody that rose and fell between the steady notes of the instrument. Then he opened his mouth, amplifying the sound and switching from the simple humming to true singing, his voice clear and sharp. Yet the song was still wordless; though he sang, it was without any particular vowel vocalization. Amorphous, and constantly shifting. Living almost, buoyed entirely by spirit rather than any set pattern of words. Yet the words existed underneath it, hinted at but unvoiced, and their absence added to the feeling of melancholy that pervaded the song.

…

_Do you know where moon goes, my heart, my heart?_

_On nights when the sky looms empty and black?_

_Do you know where she travels, my heart, my heart?_

_The places she goes to and what brings her back?_

_.  
_

_It's the mountains of tengu, distant and tall_

_To fly with the crows on their shifting wings_

_It's the waters of kappa, shallow and small_

_To dine on cucumbers and humble things_

_.  
_

_It's the frosts of the women of winter and ice_

_Together lamenting their loneliness_

_It's the fields of kitsune; the paddies of rice_

_To sleep with illusions of happiness_

_.  
_

_Do you know where moon goes, my dear, my dear?_

_On nights when the sky looms empty and black?_

_Do you know where she travels, my dear, my dear?_

_The places she goes to and what brings her back?_

…

"_Well, do you Szayel? What brings the moon back?"_

_His mother teased him while she rocked him in her arms, the heat of her body keeping him warm. They both sat on the porch overlooking the courtyard, staring up at the night sky. Their breath ghosted on the chill, winter air, rising like smoke from their mouths with every exhale._

"_I don't know."_

_She kissed him, laughing._

"_If you could run away to places like those, would you ever return?"_

_Szayel crinkled his nose, tilting his head back to look her in the eye._

"_To live with youkai?"_

_She smiled down at him._

"_Why not?"_

"_Aren't they bad? Don't they kill people?"_

"_People kill people too, Szayel. We're just as monstrous as they."_

_He paused, appearing to consider this piece of information, then frowned._

"_Then… I don't know. Why does the moon return?"_

"_Because of you, my love. The moon returns for you."_

"_Why would she do that?"_

"_Because you need her."_

"_That doesn't make sense," he said with a frown, "That's a silly reason to come back. Just because someone needs you."_

_Lady Tsukiyo sighed, turning him around, and brushed a loose strand of hair from his face._

"_You're the one who is silly, Szayel. Don't I come for you when you need me?"_

"_But you're my mother. You're supposed to do that."_

"_Exactly."_

_His frown deepened as he looked away, sulking because he did not understand._

"_I don't get it."_

_She laughed again, hugging him to her._

"_You don't need to. But like the moon, I'll always be here for you."_

…

He hadn't noticed he'd stopped singing until Nnoitra moved, and that motion brought him out of his reverie. He jolted like a frightened rabbit, moving away from the other man instinctively, but his hands were still full with the koto and his body still sluggish and so he was easily caught. Pulse racing, he looked over at the other man nervously, trying to gauge his mood, and to his surprise, it was no longer angry. Now he seemed calmer, a little pensive even.

"You can sing?"

Szayel nodded cautiously. He was in one of his questioning moods, which he knew from experience could turn violent if he did not go along with it, but for the moment offered safety.

"But you cannot form words or speak…"

Another nod. Nnoitra's brow furrowed, less in frustration than in puzzlement.

"So your throat is not damaged… then why is it you are mute?"

Szayel shrugged helplessly. It wasn't something he could explain to Nnoitra in a way that he would understand. No amount of gesturing or mouthing would help. Not expecting a reply to his mostly rhetorical question, Nnoitra moved on.

"That song. I haven't heard it before, but it sounds like a lullaby. Who taught it to you?"

_Okaa-san,_ he thought, and opened his mouth to form the word silently when he paused. An idea had occurred to him. Setting his instrument aside, he reached forward for Nnoitra's hand, but his fingers faltered just short of it. How would the man react to him grabbing his hand just like that? He hesitated, indecisive, and looked up. The taller man quirked an eyebrow, violet eye moving from his face, to his hand, and back again. Deciding to humor his odd request, he offered it to Szayel, and the prostitute took it, turning it over so that the palm lay flat and open in one of his hands. With his right hand, he traced a character into his palm.

Nnoitra's eyes widened. His eyes traveled back up to Szayel's, questioning.

"Did you…?"

Szayel traced the word again.

"Mother. Your mother taught it to you."

Szayel nodded.

"_Yes_," he traced for emphasis._  
_

Nnoitra's eyes narrowed thoughtfully for a minute, then he finally grinned, victorious.

"Now you can actually answer my damn questions."

He slid off the bed, standing up, and Szayel looked at him with confusion. Was he leaving already?

"I'll bring paper and ink the next time, so write out the words for me. And I'll bring something else. A surprise."

Why was he leaving? They hadn't even…

Nnoitra bent to collect his washizaki, resheathing it and tying it to his waist. Szayel made as if to slide off the bed after him, but his concussion returned full force and vertigo made him gasp and grip the blankets with white knuckled hands while he stared at the floor, trying to convince himself that it wasn't really spinning. But he looked up at Nnoitra after a moment, who still stood there, watching him with something similar to amusement.

"Going to follow me home?"

He bit his lip, shaking his head slightly. Too much motion triggered his headache.

"Don't look so lost then. You sang well, so I'm rewarding you. Make more of an effort in the future. Who knows, I might just be generous again."

Then he left the room, closing the door, and left Szayel still muddled as to why he'd just left. Such an unorthodox visit… sword fighting and music, but no sex.

_ I don't understand him… what motivates him._

From violence to praise.

"_You sang well…_"

He laid his cheek against the pillows, staring off into space, and not for the first time asked a certain question of the specter of the man who'd swept into his life;

_What do you want from me?_

Szayel sighed and closed his eyes as he realized he would probably never learn the answer.

* * *

**A/N:**

So here is the sixth chapter at long last of Mariposa titled Promesas, which means promises. I've started college, and while I can't say just yet that I have less time to write, I've certainly been distracted with roleplaying lately. OTL. Inexcusable, I know. But hey, at least the chapter is out now, right? (Though it was actually a third of the way written for like, a month now...)

I said I dislike flashbacks in the middle of a story, and yet I broke my own rule. Eh… what can I say? I'm a hypocrite. But singing something so nostalgic, it was pretty much inevitable some sort of memories would return. I think he was somewhere around the age of five when that scene occurred; he was younger than other "flashback" Szayel. And on the topic of flashback Szayel... you know, I feel kind of sorry for the kid, performing open heart surgery at the age of eight.

Women of winter and ice refers to the yuki onna, or snow woman. They are pretty much exactly what they sound like. Feel free to use wikipedia if you wish to learn more about them. As for kappa and cucumbers, according to myth, they are very fond of them. Of course, I may have my mythology mixed up here, but I am too lazy to double check this.

Why is Nnoitra so angry? We'll get to his temperament issues soon I think. There's more than one backstory to this fic lets just say.

Alright, I'll let you go. Read and review as always. Y para ustedes que leen este cuento y que hablan español… favor de dejarme comentario al fin del capítulo? En inglés o español, no me importa. (Jaja… bueno, traté… x3) For those of you who don't know what the hell I just said, feel free to ignore that. Seriously. Just a little idea I've been mulling over for awhile that I finally decided to act on. (Yes I stalk country statistics to see who visits my stories. I like seeing where my readers come from.) Ta~!


	7. Regalos

"Szayel… Szayel… don't drift off on me, love."

He blinked, his vision clearing, and realized he'd stopped sorting the plant cuttings his mother had given to him to identify. He stared down at his gloved hands for a moment, reorienting himself, then looked up into his mother's amber eyes. They caught the dim light of the room, and seemed to glow luminously, though he knew it was just a trick of the lighting. A natural illusion of no magical origin.

"Ah… no, okaa-chan. I won't," he said apologetically as he began to group the plants again by family. His mother shook her head slightly.

"But you were, Szayel. I told you when we started that today was not a day you could lose your concentration. Some of these plants are very poisonous."

He hunched his shoulders again, nodding. They'd been progressing through herbal properties as she taught him to take advantage of the natural compounds found in the leaves, seeds, roots, flowers, and stems of plants. A great deal of purported healing plants he'd learned were in reality quite useless or their properties greatly less than that of those attributed to them, however, there still remained a veritable treasure trove of chemicals to be exploited. One simply had to know how to use them to their advantage.

But a week earlier, she'd introduced him to the darker side of herblore, handing him a small, illustrated text on the most poisonous plants known to man and instructed him to memorize it. When he'd asked why he had to learn them, her answer had been less than comforting.

_On the most basic level, you should learn to identify the signs of poisoning so you can treat them. A step further, and you yourself can utilize them to your advantage in war. But the most complex and most difficult advantage is that, with the proper knowledge, they themselves can be used as medicines in the right dosage._

Killers turned tools of healing. A frightening thought, more so than the prospect of using them to fight. The proper dosing, he'd learned, was an extremely tricky process requiring an intimate knowledge of the conditions the plants used were grown under, the weight, age, and size, and physical fitness of the patient, and unerringly precise calculations to determine the proper extract amount and dilution of the toxins used. A weighted game of Russian roulette for the inexperienced, and even a risk for the weathered poison master.

And the danger was thrilling, because it was all a calculated risk. Calculations he could perform. The variables were controllable, or more easily assessable and understood. He had time when he worked with poisons. They were almost an escape from the daily horror of mutilation. A horror that was fading gradually as his strokes with the knife became surer with practice and he hardened his nerves to the screams and thrashing and reek of blood. Death still jarred him, but he no longer closed his eyes or cried and trembled in a dark corner or vomited when one of his patients died. After a time, his mother had even procured him a corpse. From where, he did not ask, but it was there for a sole lesson and gone by the next night. She'd had him examine it, open it up… for as accurate as her illusions were, she assured him that there was a certain _feeling_ to actually slicing into flesh that couldn't quite be recreated artificially. As he'd cut into the cold, pale skin and pinned it back with the clamps, he'd morbidly agreed.

Death was not a pretty thing. Not a noble thing. When a person died, their unconscious reflexes stopped working. Their bowels loosened. They looked stiff… unnatural. Like the mannequin, when the illusion was lifted. Oh how he hated the mannequin. Their eyes were glassy and lifeless if they died with them open. Sometimes their tongues lolled grotesquely out of their blue tinged lips if they died of asphyxiation, still trying vainly to breathe. His mother, upon moving to poisoning cases, had shifted from the gore of the battlefield to the internal struggle of paralysis, convulsions, seizures, hallucinations, high fevers, and organ failure. Sometimes, the state of dying looked no different than the state of death, as with one curare victim whose lungs had ceased functioning while their heart still beat for another minute.

Death was not pretty, typically, but dying was another matter. There was something visceral about watching a patient fight for their life. An energy that was heady to witness, even if it could only be faintly detected sometimes. But dying… was almost beautiful, in a twisted sort of way. He'd admitted this thought reluctantly to his mother once, who looked at him for a long moment before nodding to herself and replying that it was probably for the best he thought that way, as it would ease the burden of treating dying people. If there was beauty to be found, then he would not become jaded to his profession, but he must be certain not to derive pleasure from it.

"Done," he announced softly as he finished sorting his plants, and looked up again. Lady Tsukiyo examined his groupings, eyes scanning over them all before meeting his with approval.

"The families are correct. Can you list them to me by species?"

Szayel nodded curtly and began, pointing to each as he reeled it off the mental list he'd built up.

"Ricinis communis, Physostigma venemosum, Antiaris toxicaria, Hyoscyamus niger, Datura stramonium, Mandragora officionarum, Nerium oleander, Strychos nux-vomica, Conium maculatum, Atropa belladonna, Aconitum napellus, Chondrodendron tomentosum…"

"Good."

She stopped him, waving a hand, "I expected you'd learned them. I don't need to hear the whole list; I'll trust that you do indeed know them all, if you put in the effort to learn their proper names. You could have referred to them by their common names."

Lady Tsukiyo quirked an eyebrow at him, and he offered her a small, impish grin.

"But it sounds much more impressive this way. No one knows this… Latin as you call it. It's like I've got my own secret language."

"If it amuses you, then by all means mutter to yourself. Your patients will give you strange looks."

"My patients won't be in any state to look at me strangely by the time I see to them," he commented wryly, and she smiled.

"No, I imagine they won't be. My, you've developed a strange sense of humor little butterfly. So you're most interested in the apothecary branch of medicine?"

His lips thinned slightly as he looked down at his gloved hands, laced with the invisible toxic residue of the plants he'd been handling.

"Well… It's just that… I like being in control."

"And you do not feel in control of your own body?"

He sighed a little, frustration pinching his face ever so slightly.

"No I do. But I feel that I've more control over my mind. My body fails me… my mind doesn't. Not as often. I don't feel as confident with my body."

His mother was silent for a moment, and Szayel found himself unconsciously hunching his shoulders while he waited for her reply.

"I see. So that is why you have taken to the medicines and poisons."

"Yes."

"You must become confident with your physical abilities as well, Szayel. You cannot just favor one branch. I believe you went into this wanting to learn how to fight better; you should have a rounded education."

He winced, looking up.

"I know mother, it's just that I'm not…"

"Szayel."

He sighed again, frustration building. He didn't really want to have this talk. To be reminded of his own shortcomings. He resented those.

"Yes okaa-san?"

"You are what you make of yourself. If you say that you are useless, then you are. If you say you cannot trust your body, then you won't ever. Get over those conceptions. They are false. And besides… you should put more faith into your body. It is more dependable than you know."

"What… do you mean?" he asked, confused by her sudden ambiguous statement.

"I told you once that like a butterfly, your body hides a subtle poison that protects you. A strength, compensating for some of your weakness. I meant that literally."

"Poison? But my body heals. My blood heals."

"Only to those in need, and then, only when freely given. To all else, it is poison."

_Poison…_ The news came as a shock to him. All along, his mother had raised him to believe his blood a gift to others. Something to be used for good, for those in need. But now it appeared that his blood was selectively beneficial. That in fact, what ran through his veins was,

"Poison."

He breathed the word out, only half believing it as it left his tongue.

"Quite lethal as well, though it requires ingestion to activate."

He looked into his mother's eyes. His mother, fellow bearer of this toxic crimson fluid that masqueraded as blood.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was merely waiting for an appropriate time, love. Now seemed as good as any. Do not think it evil, though. As with the plants, it is a defense mechanism, to protect you from those who might harm you for the benefits of your blood. A virtual panacea. Capable of healing everything short of death? That's a powerful lure, my heart, and in the past, those like us have been killed for it. This blood is worth more than gold. Far more. And that is why you should keep it a secret for as long as you can."

At his look of slight betrayal, she sent him an apologetic look.

"If you want, we can take a break from this. I can teach you to heal with your hands if your patient is sore or recovering from injury. How to restore balance to the body without opening it up or administering a drug. Or I can show you my own secret poison garden. It's up to you. I'll let you choose what you want to do today."

He considered her open offer, knowing if he answered "_Nothing_" she'd leave him be and let him do just that without a second word. But he didn't really want to do nothing. As unpleasant as some of the realities he was learning were, they were his. His knowledge. His power. His realm. The more he learned, the more competent he felt. Not inferior like he had a few months before when he was getting pounded into the ground by his sword instructor…

"Both. I want to do both," he finally replied, tone decisive.

Lady Tsukiyo smiled.

"As you wish."

-.-.-.-.-.-

He was such a fool. Such a silly, moronic, idiotic, stupid little fool, but he couldn't help himself, even acknowledging that foolishness and berating himself for it. Because even after what had happened the week before, he still anticipated their next meeting with something akin to nervous excitement. It was a strange little murmur in his thoughts, one that made his pulse skip a little when it came to mind, and the other girls commented on his distraction.

"Shizuka is being spacier than usual," Torako snickered, and he offered her a thin sort of smile as he resumed his task industriously for another few minutes before pausing again.

But… he hardly spoke. Or rather, hardly anyone spoke to him with the intention of holding a conversation. The girls found it easier to talk of him and to him briefly as there were many more responsive people to talk to, and so between these fleeting snatches, he mostly remained uninvolved in communication. But Nnoitra wanted to ask him questions. He wanted to talk to him. And that alone was enough to make him a little skittish, wondering what he might ask, how he would respond, and why he even wanted to know in the first place.

He waited, seated on the side of the bed, and watched the door. Nnoitra would arrive soon, hopefully in a better mood than the last time, and while he could probably stand to sit a little more dignified, he was filled with too much restless energy to bother. He really wanted to pace the room and burn it off, but that would get him ridiculed quickly upon Nnoitra's arrival. He could envision it already; the man sliding open the door to find him mid pace, looking over his shoulder at him. The grin on his face as he quirked a brow and made some sort of innuendo or suggestion out of the situation.

Szayel shook his head a little. Truly, he needed to calm his nerves. He was acting ridiculous. The prostitute inhaled deeply, moderating his breath, and felt himself slowly begin to relax. In and out. Meditating. He closed his eyes…

There was a wooden _snick_ as the door slid open. Meditation forgotten, he looked up quickly, focus shifting entirely to Nnoitra and appraising his mood.

It was good. He was smiling, though the gods knew how anyone could ever construe _that_ smile as relieving. Still, Szayel relaxed.

"Tense are we?" Nnoitra observed as he walked in and shut the door. He had a sack slung over one shoulder as he meandered over to the bed, sitting down next to him and pulling from it a sheaf of papers loosely bound with string. He handed this to him, along with a bottle of ink and a fine brush. Szayel arranged it all before him, dipping the brush into the ink and writing out a reply.

_Not tense, precisely._

"No?"

_Nervous. Excited._

"Excited to see me? Missing me already, Shizuka?" he teased.

_Excited… to speak,_ he wrote out.

"Well curb your enthusiasm. I find your muteness refreshing after listening to so much inane drivel all day long," Nnoitra remarked. Not quite sure how to respond to this, Szayel nodded after a moment of silence, and Nnoitra's grin widened.

"So, I told you I wanted those lyrics written out the next time I saw you. Why don't you do that?"

Szayel looked over at him, mildly surprised. He shouldn't be; this man was anything if dogged, and what he demanded, he expected. He didn't seem to forget things, even if they felt trivial. Szayel dipped his brush back into the ink and set to transcribing them on a fresh piece of paper. Nnoitra watched over his shoulder while he worked, and he felt his cheeks warm a little self consciously as he read the simple words. It was like baring a piece of his soul to him; something that left him uncomfortable and at a loss for quite how to feel. When he finished, he handed it to Nnoitra, who looked over the words again before glancing down at Szayel and setting it aside to dry.

"So, it really was a lullaby. Why'd you sing it of all things?"

Szayel picked up his first piece of paper, pen skimming across the page in elegant strokes.

_I was in a great deal of pain at the time and could not concentrate. I played it without thinking, and once I realized what it was, I saw no point in stopping mid song._

"You could have refused."

Szayel shot him an irritated look.

_I could have. Then you would have hurt me more until I did what you wanted._

"True."

_As I am not a masochist, that option did not appeal to me._

Nnoitra laughed.

"For a mute man, you have an interesting sense of humor," he commented with amusement.

_And you an unpredictable one, _Szayel wrote with a weary look.

"Why is that?"

_I never know what is going to set you off. What will anger you, what will make you amused, what will make you pensive? One day you walk in with a smile, the next with waving a sword and demanding to fight. The only constant is that you set out to drag some sort of action or response from me, regardless of your mood._

"Do I frighten you then?"

_Yes. But you mostly confuse me. I do not know what to think of you._

Nnoitra smirked.

"I am a client. What more is there to think about?"

_And I am a whore. What more is there to ask about?_

Nnoitra was silent for a moment, and Szayel feared he'd gone a little too far. He was caught up in the giddy feeling of holding a two way conversation for the first time in years and had forgotten himself momentarily. Apprehensive, he began to backtrack, leaning down to write out an apology, but Nnoitra chose that moment to reply.

"You're an impertinent little thing, aren't you? So cheeky. Good thing you don't talk, or you might not get away with that flippant attitude."

His voice was cheerful, but Szayel knew that wasn't always a good indication of his true mood. When he felt Nnoitra's fingers under his chin, turning it to face him, he looked back nervously. Nnoitra's index finger curved up to tap his lips teasingly as he spoke up again.

"Yes, that skilled tongue of yours would be cut right out of your pretty mouth, mores the pity. It's a very good thing you don't speak."

Nnoitra leaned in, and Szayel grasped his bottle of ink reflexively so he would not spill it as the taller man kissed him, tongue flicking out to lick his bottom lip. Szayel's mouth parted as he shivered a little, and Nnoitra slipped inside, drawing his tongue into his mouth and grazing it slightly with his teeth before breaking away again. His violet eye glinted with a wicked light as he straightened again.

"I rather like your tongue and what it does after all."

Szayel shivered again, still feeling the light trail of pressure Nnoitra's teeth had left on it, and the black haired man smiled, changing tone.

"But! You do have a point. I do ask a lot of questions, and you probably wonder why. So I'll give you two of my reasons. First, its obvious my talking to you throws you off. I like seeing you squirm, my jaded prostitute."

Szayel sent him a sour look at this, which seemed to amuse Nnoitra, and he promptly continued.

"And second…"

The fingers under his chin traced down the curve of his throat, then skimmed backwards to the base of his skull to brush at the hair there. The sensual touch was not without its effects on his body, causing his skin to warm where he'd trailed his fingertips over the surface.

"I like monopolizing your time and thoughts. Tell me Shizuka, do you think about me even when I'm not here?"

Szayel stilled for a moment, freezing, then he scowled and shook his head vehemently. Nnoitra smirked again.

"Liar."

Szayel made a frustrated sound and looked away.

"Ah ah… be a good boy. Admit it. I want to see you write it out."

Szayel gripped his brush in one tightly clenched fist, to Nnoitra's apparent delight.

"Weren't you supposed to be an obliging, spineless prostitute?"

This barb was met with a flat look as Szayel grit his teeth and dipped the brush into the ink. He wrote out with considerably less grace his reply.

_I do sometimes._

"Good. If you'd insisted on lying, I wouldn't have given you your surprise. Well, actually you still would have gotten a surprise, but you probably would have hated it. Set your writing things aside for the moment."

Szayel obeyed, capping the ink and putting the sheaf of papers and brush next to him as Nnoitra reached into the sack to pull out two items. One he handed to Szayel; a small wooden chest, reminiscent of a jewelry box. At Nnoitra's prompting, he opened it and pulled out the contents.

He stared. Here was a full set of hair ornaments, and they were beautiful. The base was a black lacquer, but gold designs were painted onto them in with a fine, slender brush. There were sticks to hold his hair in place, the end of each of which was topped with a gold metal design that dangled. Upon close examination, he observed them to be tiny flowers. And then there were several carved combs, painted with a bird motif. The avian creature had a flowing tail, the feathers trailing behind it elegantly. After several minutes of handling them and bringing them up to his face, he placed them all back into the box, closing it. His hand reached for the brush, which still had ink left on it, and scrawled out a quick question.

_ What is this?_

Nnoitra handed him the second object he held, which turned out to be a knife.

"Your surprise. You haven't ever had a regular customer before, right? So you've never received trinkets from anyone. Ask the other girls. They can tell you. I'm offering you a choice between two things. You can only choose one, so pick."

_Gifts?_

He was a little dazed by the thought. Why on earth would Nnoitra give him anything? Honestly, the man's eccentricities made his head spin. Blinking, he looked down at the knife in his hands, pulling it free of its coverings.

And stopped dead.

Froze as his eyes went wide.

No. No it couldn't be… but it was. There was no mistaking the distinctive lunar insignia, nor the lapis lazuli inlay in the hilt or the bluish-silver steel, so bright and clear and new looking, but which he knew from experience had been put to use many times. His own wrists twinged; ghost pains from the sharp bite of that knife's razor fine edge.

His mother's knife.

A wealth of memories surged up, overwhelming him so that he ceased to be aware of his surroundings. Ceased to notice Nnoitra watching him, a strange look on his face. Ceased to see everything but that knife as he looked down at it with a paralyzed expression. And by the time he regained his sense of the present, he became aware that he was crying. His eyes blurring with tears, but never once blinking.

"Shizuka."

Nnoitra's voice galvanized him. His hand shot out for the ink, and he onehandedly unscrewed the cap, refusing to let go of the weapon in his hand. He dipped the brush back into the ink, writing quickly, words almost blurring in his haste.

_Where did you get this?_

"Found it in the treasury. It came from a feudal house that was burned down eight years back if I remember right. A lot of the wealth from it was distributed around. My family had this piece… oh."

He stopped, truly taking in the look of anguish on his face.

"You… you came from that house."

Szayel nodded, too distraught to hold the brush steady enough to write legibly.

"Well… that answers a lot of questions."

Szayel dropped the brush, clutching the knife to his chest as he wept. Nnoitra let him, watching him silently while he grieved. Only when his tears seemed to abate somewhat did he venture to speak up again.

"You know, to be honest I expected you to choose the hair ornaments, not the weapon. I just wanted to see what you would pick if given the option; I was going to give both to you."

Szayel attempted a watery smile at Nnoitra's light humor, but really couldn't muster the will to be happy.

"What would you do, if you had the chance to take action against your house's pillagers?"

_Kill them,_ he thought, but shook his head. He reached for Nnoitra's hand instead, tracing his reply into his palm.

_I'm not a worthy avenger._

"Because you're a whore?"

_Because I ran and was caught._

"You were what… ten at the time?"

_I can't bring my family honor if I have no honor myself._

"The only reason you have none is because you refuse to do anything to get yourself out of your current situation. You're just whoring yourself out to other men. Pathetic," Nnoitra announced, curling his lip.

Szayel's self deprecation wavered as anger rose in him, and he glared up at Nnoitra, reaching for his paper and writing in bold, vicious strokes.

_I was sold as a prisoner of war. I do not own myself. And you. You have no right to preach when you are one of the parasites using me. You tell me to stand up for myself, but you don't mean it. You wouldn't want me to, because that would be inconvenient. Then you wouldn't have your toy to kick around and make yourself feel powerful. I'm not the pathetic one. It's you, your sick games, and-_

The brush was torn from his hand as he knew it would be. He'd been wondering how long Nnoitra would allow his tirade to continue for, and he'd allowed Szayel to insult him for a surprisingly long time. But now… Nnoitra tossed the still wet papers off the bed, the ink following suit and shattering as it hit the floor, and Szayel felt himself thrown onto his back. He sneered up at Nnoitra, knowing he was in for trouble and not caring by this point. His wrists were pinned brusquely above his head as Nnoitra glowered down at him, seething.

"I told you your impudence would have consequences for you."

_So? _Szayel mouthed rebelliously, _Going to hurt me now I've stood up to you?_

"You fucking little bitch. Don't know when to shut up."

_I've only just started talking, Nnoitra. You wanted answers, so I'm giving them._

A cruel slap made him gasp as his vision blacked out for a moment. He tasted blood and swallowed it, smiling up with a sardonic, crimson grin.

"Shut the fuck up!"

_Silence me then, Nnoitra. Kill me, if this existence is so pathetic._

He felt the knife he held twisted out of his grip and he looked up at Nnoitra, defiant. The taller man glared down at him, fury making his face terrible to look at, but he did nothing with the knife. Szayel closed his eyes, suddenly feeling empty.

"Do you want to die?" Nnoitra asked.

Szayel shook his head wearily.

"Then don't fucking ask."

The knife was hurled away, off the bed, and Nnoitra released his arms. Szayel brought them back to his chest, rubbing circulation back into his wrists.

"You're proud. You've got your own honor, whether you admit it or not," Nnoitra stated, and Szayel gave him a look of disbelief. He was bringing that up again? But then, he hated to lose an argument. Sullenly, he shrugged, and reached up to trace words on his chest.

_What does it matter? This pride only earns me injury. It only invites people to beat me down further. To try to crush that remaining humanity out of me._

"So you voluntarily dehumanize yourself instead."

_If it's the last thing I can control in my life… then yes. It hurts me less to do my job if I'm choosing to do it myself in part._

"If you could escape… do anything else, what would you do?"

Szayel paused, narrowing his eyes. It wasn't a question he'd thought about in a long time. This place had become his reality. He'd crumbled away, until this core of resistance was all that remained to his personality, stubbornly resisting erosion as it hid beneath the shell that was Shizuka.

_I don't know. What would you do if you'd lost everything? _he finally answered. Nnoitra reached down and took his fingers, bringing them up to his lips and ending the conversation.

"That's easy. I'd take it all back."

Their clothes were off soon after, cast aside like the papers and ink. Another terminated conversation as their bodies moved on the bed, hot and writhing. Pink hair fanned out across the pillows, flushed cheeks. Nnoitra's black hair like cool silk on his burning skin, spread across his pale chest like the ink stain that now marred the carpet as his tongue danced torturously over his body. He sought the blinding heat of the pressure that clenched in his gut. Lost himself in it, to the rhythm of their thrusts, to their gasping, desperate breaths, and to the sweet high when that pressure finally exploded and he cried out silently to the sound of Nnoitra's animal groans.

* * *

**A/N: **Regalos means gifts, and I use that in all the meaning of the word.

So… pretty intense chapter in my opinion. Possibly because I wrote it all the night/morning before with no interruptions and no chance to get sick of it over time. (It was really cool to see my computer clock turn 2:00 am then go back to being 1:00 am. DST ending ftw) I definitely hadn't imagined it to take this turn when I first outlined it in my head, but as always, the writing has its own mind. I thought after Szayel had his little breakdown over the knife, the rest of the evening would be a bit more low key. The opposite happened. Leave it to Nnoitra to say something abrasive and get Szayel all riled up.

No matter. That confrontation had to happen at one point. Why did Nnoitra bring gifts? One, he wanted to see how Szayel would react. Probably expected him to look at him with happy adoring eyes and give him some good sex. Two, in a place with generally wealthy clientele, it isn't unusual for a regular to give their whore trinkets as a way of displaying a monopoly of sorts over them and bribing them.

Both little Szayel and current Szayel seem to get a confidence boost in this chapter, if for different reasons. Ah… little Szayel… interested in poisons and finding beauty in the throes of death. Morbid child. The plants listed by their Latin names are as follows by their common names; the Castor bean (Ricin), the Calabar bean, the Upas tree, Henbane, Datura (Jimson weed), Mandrake, Oleander, the Strychnine tree, Poison Hemlock, Deadly Nightshade, Aconite (Monkshood/Wolfsbane), and the Curare vine. These are not listed by family groupings. If any of you are interested in poison plants, I recommend Wicked Plants by Amy Stewart as some fun reading material. (Fun by my standards, mind you. But I also find reading about diseases and parasites fun)

And yes, this knowledge and these poisons will be making a reappearance most likely in the future. Well, read and review if you liked, and I'll see you next time. Reviewing really does encourage me to upload faster. (I seriously wrote this one on a whim last night because I had a few nice reviews built up for this story)


	8. Complicaciones

"Lady Tsukiyo!"

The cry was desperate, and they both looked up startled as the door opened with a crash. The messenger's eyes were wide with panic, prompting immediate graveness on their parts as they ignored the rude interruption, and he panted, as if he'd run a great distance to deliver his news.

"Speak. What happened?" his mother ordered, tone serious.

"There was an accident. Yylfordt-sama, he was thrown off his horse!"

Lady Tsukiyo rose immediately.

"Where is he now?"

"The infirmary."

"I understand. I'll come. Szayel," she turned to look back at him where he still sat, shocked by the news, "You come as well."

They swept down the halls, Szayel struggling to match his mother's long strides. Though she was worried, she was not panicked as the messenger had been. Her steps were swift but purposeful, and in that moment, she looked as powerful and commanding as any man and worlds more regal. Szayel felt like a little shadow, tagging along at her side and trying to imitate her splendor. When they finally reached the infirmary, the medics stepped back to allow her to pass and see the patient, murmuring thanks and welcome for her arrival.

Yylfordt lay on the cot, unconscious and unmoving but for the shallow breaths he took and the occasional pained grimace. His arm looked twisted at an unnatural angle, and blood seeped up through the cloth covering his leg. There was something wrong about it, but he couldn't place what just yet as his clothes concealed the injury. His mother walked over to him without a moment's hesitation, pulling it back, and Szayel hissed at the sight.

His leg wasn't just broken; it was fractured. A bloody hoof mark marred the skin, and he could see bone slivers poking up through the leg. A clean break could have been wrapped and set to heal. This… nothing but a miracle could save his brother's leg now. He would be a cripple for life.

But as it so happened, they did have a miracle on hand. Lady Tsukiyo's medical abilities were nothing short of miraculous, and she quickly set to work, ordering the other healers out of the room as she bent over her eldest son. Szayel watched, uncertain of what to do with himself as his mother placed her hands over his leg and light seeped out of them to engulf the wound.

"Szayel, come over here."

He obeyed, walking to her side and looking at her glowing hands with something akin to amazement. She was fixing him with magic. So easy. No knives or ties or wooden splints. No pain. Just a soft amber glow, like lamplight. It wasn't fair.

"Put your hand over mine. Can you feel that? Can you feel the energy?"

Yylfordt was injured, and yet she still turned it into a teaching session. Szayel placed his smaller hand over hers and could indeed feel it, the energy seeping into his body. And to his surprise, it did not feel foreign to him as he expected it to. It felt like his mother. Her special energy. He realized he'd felt it before, to a lesser extent, every time he was around her.

"It's easy to feel mine since it is so familiar to you. I use it every night during our lessons, and you pick up on it without realizing. Later, when you're older, you'll learn to feel and manipulate your own… and sense the energy of things around you. Like the fire in our first lesson. If you can learn what magic feels like, you can recreate it in time."

He removed his hand from hers and watched her, even if on the surface nothing seemed to happen. But gradually, he noticed the shards of bone poking up through his skin receding as she pieced them back together into a whole bone. By the time she finished with his leg, the bloody cuts where the fragments had protruded were healed over, though she let him keep the swollen horseshoe mark as a memento and his bone had been bruised. If he did not walk away from the infirmary limping at least, there would be no lesson learned. True accidents, his mother told him, were exceedingly rare. It was likely Yylfordt had done something foolish while riding.

Lady Tsukiyo moved to examine his arm next, diagnosing it as dislocated from the shoulder and snapped cleanly. She set Szayel to pop it back into place, and he did so, managing not to flinch at the unpleasant noise it made. Yylfordt chose that moment to come to with a piercing scream, bolting upright as he clutched at his shoulder. He looked down at Szayel wildly, wrenching his arm from his grasp only to gasp as pain flared through him.

"Be a good patient Yylfordt and let your brother treat you," his mother reprimanded him, and with a pained hiss, Yylfordt lay back down, looking over at Szayel moodily.

"Why's he treating me, okaa-san?"

"Because he could use the practice, but if you're going to complain, I'll finish the job myself. Here Szayel, let me."

He moved aside as Yylfordt muttered to himself.

"He'd let me go crippled to spite me."

"Only if you maintain that foolish attitude," his mother said wearily as she forced the bone back into proper alignment and tied it to keep it that way while she let her magic flow into him again to repair the break. Szayel meanwhile contented himself with shooting his older brother a dirty look.

"I'm not going to cripple you just because you're an arrogant jerk, nii-san. Not when you do it to yourself. Besides, I'm going to beat you someday and I'll do it on my own skills, not your failings," he informed him with dignity. Yylfordt rolled his eyes.

"You've got a lot of catching up to do then, little brother. I'll change my mind when you can finally beat me in a fight."

At his sour expression he reached over with his good hand and ruffled his hair condescendingly, and Szayel slapped his hand away, unamused.

"I will!" he declared hotly, and his mother pulled him away before things could escalate, having finished up.

"No fighting in the sick room, boys. It's in bad taste. Szayel, I believe your teachers have been asking around for you. Why don't you go visit them? I've been keeping you during the day too often lately."

"But mama…"

"No complaints. Go, Szayel. Don't neglect your studies. I'll see you this evening."

"Yes, mother."

He slunk from the room, sullen from his dismissal and Yylfordt's rudeness. Disparaging his skills. Well if his horsemanship was anything to go by, nii-san could brush up on _his_ talents too. He was too hotheaded for his own good, and it would get him into a worse accident some day. Somewhat mollified by this thought, Szayel grinned to himself and continued his task to seek out his teachers with a lighter mood.

-.-.-.-.-.-

"Shizuka."

His name was called suddenly, unexpectedly, and quietly. Szayel looked over at the girl who bathed next to him, her eyes fixed on the wall. She'd seemed quieter this evening, but now he comprehended something was wrong. Even though she stood under the hot water, her skin was pale. Something was eating at her, and it seemed she finally wished to come forth with it. He inclined his head, giving her his attention, and she looked over to meet his eyes.

He immediately detected the anguish there. The panic, bubbling up now that she was fairly alone, and her confession spilled forth a moment later.

"Shizuka I need your help. I'm pregnant."

Szayel felt his stomach drop out, and he swayed a little at the revelation. It was certainly a risk in this profession, if one was female. The girls took special supplements and teas that changed the chemistry in their bodies and made it extremely difficult for an egg to seed itself in the uterine wall and grow into a child. In the short run, it was a very effective method, though not infallible. In the long run… years of use destroyed them, sickening them as their bodies finally could cope no longer with the harsh chemicals. But prostitution was not a job that called for longtime workers. The girls were very replaceable, and once they could no longer work, they were dismissed.

But this wasn't his problem. Pregnancy wasn't his concern, as a man. So why was she asking him for help? Wouldn't it be better if she confided in another woman? One of the older girls, who may have had experience with such an occurrence? He flinched as Umeko leaned forward, resting her forehead against the shower wall and began to sob. Szayel spent an awkward minute watching her and battling with himself internally over what to do before he finally approached her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder and silently reassuring her with his presence. She continued to shake, crying for several minutes before her tears subsided somewhat and she was able to speak again. Her voice, when she spoke, was wavery and choked with emotion.

"I'm sorry. You probably think me foolish for breaking down like this… but I don't know what to do. I've already asked, and Kikyo told me if the medicine didn't work, then physical trauma was the best option. If my body is stressed enough, it will reject the child to protect itself."

Szayel felt his gut twist as he had a sinking suspicion where this request was going. If she'd already asked another woman, and now turned to him…

"You have an abusive regular. I know you try to hide it. We all do. But I've seen them, the bruises. I know what he does to you. Please, Shizuka…"

He stiffened then, eyes widening. God no, she couldn't be asking…? But she was. As he looked into her despairing face and tormented eyes, he knew she was. She just didn't realize the full significance of what she was asking. He shook his head. Umeko broke down again.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I don't want to ask this of you, but I have to. Please Shizuka… just one night… just one night… I can't… I don't want Kaito to find out. I'm begging you…"

She was down on her knees then, imploring, bowing, and he did not know what to do. Did not know what to say to this weeping girl who begged him to let his own client beat her until she miscarried. Who asked him for one night… one night of suffering so that she could keep her pregnancy secret from the man she loved and not have to face his possible rejection. How could she ask? She didn't know… didn't know what it was like to be so terribly hurt. Yet this tore her apart as surely as physical abuse would. She was in pain already.

So he bent and pulled her to her feet, regretting. Nodding. Because how could he not? She stood, trembling, and buried her face in his chest, wrapping her arms around him and seemingly not caring about the immodesty of that act. How their bare, wet skin pressed together, her body soft on his. He stroked her back reassuringly even if he himself felt unsettled, and she breathed against his skin, tears mingling with the water that flowed down their bodies.

"Thank you Shizuka… thank you… I'm sorry…"

They stood that way for several minutes until she finally collected herself enough to separate from his arms, shyly wiping away her tears and shutting off the water as she walked out of the baths to dry off. And he watched her go, already looking forward to his next visit with Nnoitra apprehensively.

-.-.-.-.-.-

He bowed the moment Nnoitra entered, on his hands and knees and with his face pressed into the floor in the most humble of prostrations; the dogeza. If he sought to catch Nnoitra off guard, he succeeded, for the man stopped inside the doorway, speechless. Szayel could feel his eyes on him, taking in his vulnerable posture for a long moment before he continued into the room, walking over to him. Nnoitra toed his side experimentally before speaking.

"So what's the occasion?"

Szayel straightened, coming out of his bow, and handed him a piece of paper with a sentence already written.

_I need to ask you a favor._

Nnoitra quickly scanned the page, then looked down at him where he still knelt with his knees tucked under him, waiting anxiously for his reply. He smirked.

"A favor? That depends on what you're asking. Elaborate."

Szayel nodded and stood stiffly, walking over to his vanity and picking up the sheaf of papers, his ink, and the brush Nnoitra had given him during his last visit. Nnoitra followed him, leaning forward a little to look down over his shoulder as he sat and wrote out his explanation.

_It isn't for myself, it's for one of the girls here. She needs…_

He paused, hesitating over his next words. It was a sensitive topic, and he was loathe to explain it to Nnoitra who would surely view it callously, but he'd promised Umeko. He had to at least try. Mustering his will, he continued.

_She's pregnant, and she needs to miscarry. She's asked me to ask you if you would…_

Szayel paused again, biting his lower lip. God, he really didn't want to be the messenger. Frustrated, he forced himself to finish, but Nnoitra interrupted him before he could set brush to paper.

"So the bitch got knocked up and she needs someone to smack her around. She wants me to do that."

Cringing a little at the flatness of his crudely phrased words, he nodded. Nnoitra was silent for a moment, and Szayel took to examining his fingers, which he'd crossed in front of him having set the brush down again.

"That's what you're asking of me then?"

Szayel picked up the brush.

_Yes. Just for one night._

"That's one night I'm missing with you. How are you going to compensate me?"

Compensation. Of course. He should have figured a little begging wasn't going to get him a favor from Nnoitra for free. There would be a price. Szayel blanched a little. His promise to one crying woman was turning out more costly than he'd anticipated. Yet, he had already stepped into this mess. He couldn't go back. Still pale faced, he wrote out seven words he'd never thought he'd say.

_I'll do whatever you want me to._

Nnoitra read over this sentence, his eyes skimming over the characters multiple times before they returned to him. And then he smiled.

"Whatever I want?"

Szayel shuddered slightly as he nodded.

_Yes._

The taller man's amethyst eye gleamed as he looked down at him appraisingly. His voice when he spoke was distressingly soft and light.

"That's an awful lot of effort for one woman who is destined for the gutters anyways in ten years or so. Tell me, do you like her?"

Szayel stared back, not quite daring to write out a caustic reply to his cynical remark, instead addressing the second part of his question.

_She's just a friend. Nothing more. I do not like any of the women here that way._

"Then why prostrate yourself for her? Why promise something so dangerous for a casual work relationship? It isn't worth it."

_Because these friendships are all I have. One of the few things the House doesn't own._

"I see. So for this, you are willing to do anything."

Szayel hunched his shoulders, nodding miserably. Nnoitra chuckled.

"You look frightened. What's to say I'll ask something cruel?"

Szayel offered him a wary, mistrustful look, and Nnoitra laughed.

"No, you're right. When you make such a tempting offer, how can I hold back? Go. Stand in the middle of the room and strip down."

Feeling a chill of foreboding, he did so, rising and walking to the center of the room. He turned to look at Nnoitra, fingers shaking a little as he undid his kimono and let it slide to the floor, peeling off his undergarments next until at last he was completely naked. He shivered a little as he stood there, and Nnoitra's good eye ate up his body with a predatory intenseness. Gradually, he slunk over to him. Circling with a slow fluidity that made his flesh crawl. It was bad enough to see him, but far worse to feel himself appraised while he was out of sight. When Nnoitra spoke up, breaking the silence, he startled a little, already on edge due to his building nerves.

"Do you still have that blindfold?"

Szayel nodded.

"Where is it?"

He pointed over to his dresser, where it sat folded neatly on top. Nnoitra glided over to it, picking it up and unfolding it to examine. Seemingly satisfied, he returned to his prowling with it in his hands, and Szayel's skin prickled. A minute later, he felt him come up behind him.

"Open your mouth a little."

Szayel obliged, parting his lips, and he felt the cloth slipped between them and tied firmly around his head. It was at this point he began to panic a little. Nnoitra continued to work smoothly, unhurried as he walked around to the front to inspect his handiwork, but there was something ominous about that slowness. A dark energy was building beneath his calm façade, and Szayel dreaded the moment it burst free. Nnoitra bent to pick up his obi, which lay undone on the floor around him. He unrolled the long fabric, appraising it for a minute before he nodded to himself. It was then that he looked into Szayel's eyes, and the smaller man's breath hitched at the expression he saw there. Paralyzed. He felt paralyzed. Nnoitra pulled a segment of the obi taut between his hands and smiled eerily.

"This will have to do. I'll bring my own things with me next time."

_Next time?_ he thought to himself, eyes widening.

"If your friend has to suffer, then I think its only fair you take the same punishment. Well… almost the same. Obviously, there are going to be a few differences between what I do to her and what I do to you, but think. By the end of this, you two can both commiserate on something and your friendship will be all the greater for your shared pain."

_He's… no…_

"A beating hard enough to cause a miscarriage. Wouldn't want her to go through trauma and not dispose of the little parasite she carries by the end of it. So Shizuka, I'll practice on you first since you offered to do anything for her."

His words and tone were playful, but his entire demeanor was in complete contrast. Szayel choked back a fearful whimper as he approached, fighting with every instinct in his body that urged him to flee. And then suddenly he was gone, a blur as he moved, and Szayel felt the obi loop around his throat from behind and pull tight. His hands flew up to his neck instantly, fingers scrabbling frantically at the cloth as his throat was crushed mercilessly. Nnoitra leaned in to husk a reminder into his ear, warm breath making his already dizzy head spin.

"Willingly, Shizuka."

Szayel forced his hands to fall back to his sides where they hung, twitching, as his knees locked. He felt Nnoitra smirk against his skin as he twisted the obi one more time and released him. Szayel collapsed immediately, falling to his hands and knees and breathing harshly through the cloth that gagged him. His body trembled, fingers fisting in the carpet to ground himself as he swayed. The respite lasted no more than a few seconds before Nnoitra was back to work, wrenching his arms above his head and lashing his arms together. Still sick with disorientation, Szayel offered little resistance as he was manhandled over to the bed, and he felt himself levered up by his wrists until his toes barely touched the floor. His makeshift bonds were promptly tied to one of the bedposts, and he was left to hang as Nnoitra stood back to observe him for a moment. Szayel gazed back with frightened eyes, flinching as Nnoitra reached forwards.

"You're lucky, you know. This won't hurt you half as much as it will her. She doesn't have your healing blood."

His fingers brushed his cheek, stroking at first, then cupping his face almost tenderly. It might have been misconstrued as tender by someone less experienced in his capricious ways, but Szayel knew it was meant only to hurt. That the contrast between this odd gentleness and the brutality that would follow shortly was psychologically damaging in its own right. He'd fallen for that trap in the past, but not today. When the same hand left his face to drive into his stomach as a fist, he gasped at the physical pain but nothing more.

Still, physical pain was more than enough to break him down. His breathing grew harsher and shallower as Nnoitra continued, hands everywhere. Hitting, crushing, bruising. If he'd been standing properly, his legs would have failed him. His hip flared as Nnoitra smashed it against the wood, and his stomach was one great pulsing mass of agony. His shoulders screamed in pain at the stress placed on them, his wrists numb. It seemed an eternity before he felt himself falling forward as Nnoitra untied him from the post, and he sobbed as he hit the floor, not even responding to the pain that jolted through his arm and hip as he fell on them harshly. No, far more immediate was Nnoitra as he hauled him up again by his still bound wrists.

The taller man shook him roughly, then dropped his reins in favor of his long, loose hair. Yanking at this, he forced Szayel to look at him.

"No passing out, Shizuka. We aren't finished."

Not finished? By this point, miscarriage was doubtlessly assured, but Nnoitra had mentioned being thorough. Oh gods, he didn't know how much more of this he could take.

Nnoitra wasn't smiling anymore. If this was a game, it wasn't one he was laughing about. His face was dead serious as he picked him up bridal style and laid him on the bed gently. And that in itself was more frightening than anything else he'd done thus far. His resolve finally snapped as he shook his head wildly, struggling, refusing what he knew was coming.

_No! No!_ he yelled silently, mouthing it around his gag, screaming it at him as he thrashed even if nothing emerged from his throat. Moans he could voice. Soft sounds like humming, whimpering. But screams… for whatever reason were cut off by his condition. Nnoitra needn't have gagged him.

Pitiless, Nnoitra tied his arms to the posts, immobilizing them. Szayel kicked, only to gasp as his legs were forced apart brutally and bent back. He jerked at his restraints, raging, terrified, and desperate. Fighting a futile battle.

"Keep thrashing and I'll have to break your hips."

Szayel stilled at Nnoitra's threat, chest heaving as he stifled choked sounds. He shook his head weakly, still protesting.

_No… no… please don't…_

He felt Nnoitra's hands on his pelvis, pressing, and he promptly shut up, teeth worrying the gag set between them. Nnoitra took the opportunity to strip off his hakama, and a moment later, he was thankful for its presence as he clamped down on it, eyes rolling back in his head at the new pain that invaded him as Nnoitra thrust into him. Gasping turned to silent screaming quickly as he arched and writhed and cried out at the agony lancing through him as the friction rubbed him raw. And unlike other times, there was no pleasure to be had in it. Nnoitra purposefully avoided the bundle of nerves that made his body melt. It was a mercy really, if an unintended one. Szayel wouldn't have born it if his own body had betrayed him after all the suffering it had been put through. To endure so much, only to ride out the end on a false high?

He felt filthy enough when Nnoitra finally withdrew, untying him without a word and leaving him to his own devices. Szayel curled up, despite the pain that flared through his body as he did so. Everything hurt anyways, no matter what he did. He faced the wall, listening to Nnoitra pull on his pants and collect his things. Dirty. He was dirty. He wanted to scrape off his skin, rid himself of that crawling feeling, but it ran deeper than that. He raised his shaking hands to his face. Black. Pitch black. Clenching them, he closed his eyes, not trusting his vision. But something Nnoitra had said came back to him, filtering through his clouded mind.

_This won't hurt you half as much as it will her._

And it was true. All this would pale in comparison to what Umeko would endure in a week's time.

The hand on his shoulder startled him out of his reverie, and he cringed away from the soft and unexpected touch.

"In the future, be a little more selfish. When you're so altruistic, you're just asking to be broken."

Two sentences, spoken in an even tone. And then he was gone, leaving him alone in the room to nurse his aches and huddle among the rumpled coverlets. He would have lain there the rest of the evening, feeling his body grow stiff as the warmth left his limbs, but the knowledge that this wasn't over finally gave him the strength to rise. His first steps out of bed were unsteady, and he nearly fell several times, but gradually he succeeded in regaining his balance as he pulled on his kimono and limped down the halls to the baths to relax his muscles in the hot water and massage his injuries. Umeko would need all the help he could offer her when the time came, and the earlier he began his preparations, the better.

-.-.-.-.-.-

He hadn't access to the same variety of plants he'd had available to him in his mother's garden. The herbs he found in the House courtyard would have to suffice, and he knew before he set foot in it two days later what he wanted from it and where to gather it. From down by the koi pool, he took mint cuttings, wrapping them in a damp cloth to keep them fresh. Next he sought out the poppies growing by one of the standing, decorative stones. He plucked all the pale, fuzzy seed heads he could find, slipping them into his obi discretely. But it was the third plant he handled with the most respect and apprehension. Aconite. Though its spikes of hooded blue flowers were deceptively beautiful, it was lethal by nature, and he did not even touch them with his bare hands as he picked a bundle with another cloth, wrapping the small bouquet completely once he'd finished. The irony was that, despite how deadly it was, it was still common as a decorative garden plant. He was willing to bet many of those who invited it into their garden did not know of its sinister side.

His materials thus retrieved, he retreated back to his room, stowing them in a dark, cool drawer. To this stash he later added bee's wax, a small pot of honey he'd coaxed from the kitchens, and oil. It was not until the following evening that he found the chance to begin preparing the ingredients he'd collected. He minced the mint up very fine, inhaling its pungent odor as he ground it into a smooth pulp with a mortar and pestle. The wax, oil, and honey were heating in a container that floated in a kettle set over a flame typically used to boil tea, and he stirred the mix occasionally, ensuring it blended evenly. After it had reached a smooth consistency, he added his herbal puree, removing it from the heat and mixing vigorously so that it was distributed homogenously.

Only two ingredients remained to be added, and as he let his salve cool, he began working with one. The aconite. He'd done the mental calculations earlier after asking Umeko a few questions and making his own judgments. He knew the conditions the plant he used had grown under. But still he ran them through his head, double and triple checking. It was not so critical when the plant wasn't going to be ingested, but he wished to avoid the cardiac troubles that could result from an improper dosage. He wanted only the minor nerve paralysis and subsequent numbness casual contact with the plant caused.

Carefully measured out and crushed to a pulp several minutes later, he scraped his poisonous additive into the salve, mixing it and feeling the tips of his fingers tingle very slightly. Poisoning was not so much a worry for him as his blood naturally rejected the toxins and neutralized them as they seeped into his bloodstream, and it was the only reason he did not change knives as he opened up his wrist for the final ingredient. An ingredient that seemed contradictory, as something that rendered toxins inert. However, he'd learned years ago through his own experimentations that his blood only took effect in the presence of bodily damage and that it first sought out the worst damage to heal. The mild aconite poisoning would be a minor concern.

He smiled a little at this thought, comparing his blood to something sentient that could make decisions on its own. But sometimes it felt like that. It certainly had many strange properties he did not entirely understand. Tilting his wrist, he forced the crimson fluid out of his veins and into the jar of salve, opening it a second time when the cut began to heal over until he had a good amount of it in the jar. Then he took the stirring stick and swirled it around the concoction until the red became a pale pink and it was done. Szayel sat back, tired and not looking forward to cleaning up after himself. He'd have to dispose of the aconite and wash the tainted instruments where it would harm no one, which meant outside most likely. And then he still had to tap the opium poppy heads to make his crude laudanum…

The prostitute shook his head. That could wait until tomorrow. Cleanup was required now. With great reluctance, he stood and gathered the equipment he'd borrowed, woodenly marching off to rinse his hands of his dangerous, secret dealings.

-.-.-.-.-.-

He stood in the hall, leaning against the wall while he waited out that night's encounter. He'd steeled his face into a neutral mask, but every so often, he'd hear a shriek that was impossible to ignore. A sound of such pain that it made his skin prickle to listen to it, and he reflexively cringed, remembering his own treatment. But the worst part of it wasn't playing bystander. Umeko had his sympathy, but this was something she had asked for, and he had gotten hurt from her request as well. No the worst part was when it was all finally over. In the eerie silence that followed, the only sound that his ears could detect was of soft, broken weeping, and his body tensed anticipatorily as the seconds crawled by. Then the door slid open and Nnoitra stepped out into the hall, and Szayel felt sick as the tall man glanced his way and promptly proceeded over to him. When he'd emerged from the room, his expression had been inscrutable, but as soon as he laid eyes on the prostitute, he cracked a grin.

"Waiting for your woman? Or were you waiting for me?" he asked, hailing him as he sauntered up to him. Szayel shot him a look of pure irritation and Nnoitra chuckled, tilting his chin up so his face was better illuminated. The wall allowed him no chance to escape as Nnoitra drew him into a sensual kiss, and shamefully, Szayel returned it. The black haired man was good at it- sinfully so -and as Nnoitra pressed him into the wall, claiming his mouth, he felt his breathing quicken and his skin warm. It was unfair, so unfair that he should have this effect on him despite all the crap he'd put him through. That all it took was a kiss from this man to undo him. Nnoitra withdrew after a minute, teeth nipping at his lower lip once before he pulled away, leaving him feeling a little dazed and wanting.

"We can continue this next week, believe me. You owe me for tonight," he said before turning and walking off nonchalantly. Szayel tracked his progress down the hall, eyes fixed on his back until he turned the corner and disappeared. Only then did he sag against the wall, closing his eyes and trying to collect himself, for he felt as if he were falling apart just from those words. How they made him shiver, both pleasantly and with dread. What galvanized him in the end was the sight of Umeko, leaning heavily in the door way as she limped out of her room. She'd managed to shrug her kimono on, but it revealed more than it concealed as she was too weak to tie it closed, and what he could see was not pleasant to look at. Her legs shook as she tried to walk forward, frustrated, pained tears streaking down her cheeks, and with a small cry, she pitched forward at her next step. But Szayel was already there, catching her, lending her support as she collapsed against him and shook and cried. She was in a state of delirium from the agony, unaccustomed to such brutal treatment. In short, she was in no condition to walk.

He'd anticipated this. Expected it, after assessing the damage he'd taken and projecting the damage Umeko would take. So lifting her, he slid an arm under her legs and carried her back to his room held securely to his chest, and she curled up against him, still crying, but seeming to calm down a little. When he reached his bed, he laid her out gently across the bed, putting her down on her back which had taken the least of Nnoitra's beating and picking up the bucket of warm water and cloths he'd prepared beforehand. Umeko didn't protest when he removed her kimono and began to wash her tender skin gently.

He wished he was more like his mother. That he had her skill. That, just by placing his hands on her and willing it, he could heal her injuries. But limited to ordinary skill, he made do with what he had. After cleaning her up a bit, he bade her sit up, supporting her while he handed her a bottle to drink from. She drank the alcohol without question, little knowing it contained more than just sake, but she didn't have to know that. He wasn't going to give her enough to make her addicted to the opium; one night would ease the worst of her pain. He watched her drink the laudanum, taking it from her once she'd finished, and helped her back into her supine position. It was then that he brought out his salve and uncapped it, and coating his fingers, began to work it in gentle circles into her skin.

Her body was hot, burning up as her body responded to its injuries, but the mint oils in the salve had a cooling effect. He felt when her body finally began to relax; that was the poppy and alcohol at work, calming her down. Her muscles followed the same route as the aconite seeped in, numbing the pain by paralyzing the nerves while his blood worked to repair the damage itself. His hands tingled, on the verge of numbness themselves but not quite there, so he continued to massage, always mindful of the forming bruises and soreness. After some time, he heard Umeko sigh, and he looked over at her. She was watching him; he'd expected her to have fallen asleep, but it appeared she was still conscious, even if that was steadily slipping. Her eyes were half lidded with exhaustion and a little unfocused, but she was still awake. She offered him a soft smile as he met her gaze, speaking up.

"I'm lucky. Your client told me he'd done the same thing to you last week. But here you are, treating me when you had no one to help you."

He shook his head. _It's fine,_ he mouthed, _I recover quickly._ She frowned at him.

"But you still had to suffer through that all by yourself. And it still must have hurt."

He paused, considering this. It had. It had hurt terribly. But he never thought about the fact that he'd endured it by himself because he'd already considered himself fortunate knowing the damage would not last long. He'd been focused on Umeko's misfortune as a way to supercede his own, that she did not have the benefits of his blood and thus would heal more slowly. Yet she considered herself lucky. He smiled at the thought, amused.

Umeko suddenly cringed, clutching her stomach and gasping a little. Alarmed, he straightened, but she shook her head at him.

"Fine… need to get down… to the bathroom…" she said, and he scooped her up again, lengthening his stride as he made the trip with haste. She whimpered softly in his arms all the while, and when he finally made it down to the outhouse, she stumbled inside and shut the door. And standing outside, trying not to listen, he waited as her body finally rejected that which she'd gone to such lengths to rid herself of. Umeko would keep her secret from Kaito after all.

He helped her back to bed, though this time she managed to hobble with his help. She was pale and hollow eyed by the time she made it back to the room and practically collapsed. Szayel dragged out a futon from his closet, spreading it out on the floor and covering himself with another. He wouldn't ask her to go back to her room when bad memories still lingered there, and he wouldn't make her sleep on the floor as hurt as she was. He was drifting off when he heard her voice again, frail and tentative, and was surprised for the second time that night that she was still awake.

"Shizuka…"

He made a soft sound to indicate that he'd heard.

"Thank you."

Another grunt as he pulled the futon up to his chin and tried to get comfortable.

"Also, you're surprisingly manly."

Silence. He stilled, not quite sure how to respond to this comment. A comment he'd never heard once in his entire life. Umeko laughed after a moment, breaking the awkward quiet that had settled over them, and he swore he could hear her smiling.

"I think that I might have a crush on you."

He sat up then, looking over at her with something similar to alarm, and she laughed again. He could see now that she was smiling. At his frown, she waved a hand at him reassuringly and added on to that statement.

"I still love Kaito of course, but you're very kind Shizuka. I hope you can get out of here someday and find someone to love too."

He remained upright for awhile after she finished speaking, watching her as she finally fell asleep and her breathing became deeper. Then, reluctantly, he reclined again. Sleep came to him with difficulty that night, and even after he finally managed it, he slept fitfully as her words continued to stalk him through his dreams.

* * *

**A/N:** I understand straight up that this may be taken as a controversial chapter due to the fact it contains abortion. If this goes against your sensibilities, then my apologies. However, this is a reality of the trade I have chosen to describe. Nothing about it is pretty or romantic, and Umeko could not have kept her child if she'd wanted to. It would have prevented her from working. That said, I'll move on to some of my other commentary. I don't want this to turn into a political, religious, or moral debate.

Complicaciones you could guess easily. It means complications. Because this chapter really was full of them. The flashback is kind of blah and random in my opinion, but I'm doing this fic for Nanowrimo so I don't have to option to be picky. As it is, I'm a week behind. What fun. This is why you're getting two chapter updates in two days. Amazing, huh? Expect more sometime later this week; I've got two speeches for my public speaking class to deal with, one starting tomorrow. I also don't quite like the ending. Feels a little abrupt and such, but again… oh well. I wrote the bulk of it late last night and finished this up in the hour and a half before class started today.

I did mention the poisons would be making a reappearance, but I didn't expect it to be this soon. Oh well. They'll probably appear again later too. Nnoitra is… yeah. I don't quite know what to say about him right now. This chapter is just fucked up. I think that's the most accurate way to describe it. But I still like it. Its very dark, and I enjoy writing dark things provided I have something light to write about following that drama.

Well, ta until the next time. Read and review please if you liked, I love love love reading reviews. :D Even if the next chapter will come out soon, they still are awesome. Next chapter will probably be out Veteran's day or the day after. (Armistice Day ftw)


	9. Autoridad

"Boy, I don't know what you have been doing with yourself, but after an entire year of practicing, your improvement is pathetically inadequate."

Szayel let his shoulders slump as he stared across the training grounds at his teacher, sweat making strands of his hair cling to his forehead and breath coming in shallow pants. The weapons instructor stared back at him, mouth curled in distaste. However, there wasn't the absolute disapproval he'd held a year ago in his eyes. As "pathetically inadequate" as his improvement had been, he had improved, and this time he hadn't been knocked unconscious to sprawl in the dirt.

"Your technique is good. Precise, even efficient when you begin. But your endurance is terrible and your physical strength next to nothing. You get tired quickly, and then you get sloppy, and then you become an easy kill. I cannot teach you the more advanced techniques until you are capable of keeping up with the simpler moves."

Szayel nodded, disappointment making him bitter. The kind of strength training his teacher demanded required him to devote a few hours every day to improve himself. But Szayel didn't have that time. Between his other lessons and his special evening sessions with his mother, he had no chance to incorporate yet another demand to his energy.

"I want you to build up your strength and endurance, is that clear? That's an order from your teacher."

An order. Szayel's lips quirked into a sardonic smile. What right had he to order him around? He drew himself up, giving him a disdainful look, but kept his tone fairly civil.

"Sir, if you want me to get stronger, then stop teaching me until I achieve that level of fitness. I'll use this time instead of learning the sword, since you say my technique is so _excellent_ and you cannot teach me anything more until I improve."

The instructor became angry then, eyes narrowing dangerously as he sheathed his weapon and strode over to him.

"Respect my authority, brat! I am your teacher. While you are under my tutelage, you show me the proper esteem!"

Szayel did not back down. Did not flinch or lower his head as he might have in the past. He took a wider stance, standing tall as he stared up at the furious man who now stopped before him and challenged him with hard, amber eyes. His instructor seemed to falter a bit, taken aback by this unexpected display of defiance, and Szayel took the opportunity to speak.

"I am a scion of this house! I outrank you! And I will respect you when you respect me! I am not my brother. I am not Yylfordt. Do not compare us! If you cannot understand such a simple thing, then I will not remain as your student. Is that clear?"

The man looked him over, eyes still narrowed, but his mood seemed to have shifted. It seemed more calculating than angry, and when he spoke up again, his tone was tinged with amusement.

"So, you've finally learned to stand up for yourself. Ha! I have some hope for you yet. But do not think for a moment that I'll be so lenient with you the next time. If you want my respect, then you have to show me you're worth it. Until then, I'll treat you as I see fit. You are dismissed."

It was a hard call, whether to retreat with grace or shoot him an irritated look. This man was anything if frustrating, and even his faint approval was abrasive. Szayel finally managed a murmured assent, sheathing his sword and handing it to his instructor respectfully. Though he'd told him he would not acknowledge his authority until they stood on more equal footing, he wouldn't be immature about his displeasure. It was unseemly for a young noble to throw a temper tantrum over such a trivial matter. He bowed slightly in farewell, then turned on his heel to depart. Business called elsewhere.

His mother had requested his presence that morning, stating she had some news for him. Somewhat unusual, considering she could have waited until their evening lessons to tell him, and this made him hurry all the faster to his mother's private quarters. He found her kneeling in front of a table, writing as she typically did in her spare time. However, the content of her writing was much less typical. Leaning over her shoulder to look, he saw it was a list of names, both male and female. Lady Tsukiyo looked up at him, smiling, and slid the list over to him as he knelt beside her.

"Which names do you like Szayel?"

He glanced down at the list, then back over at his mother, confused.

"Why does it matter?"

She grinned, looking excited, and finally delivered the news she'd called him about.

"I'm going to have another baby."

The news hit him like a lead weight and Szayel felt his stomach bottom out. He heard himself unconsciously respond; his mind was drifting.

"What?"

"You're going to have another brother or sister."

Another sibling. Like Yylfordt, except younger. Younger. Someone he wouldn't have to live up to. But what if they turned out to be talented like his older brother? What if they too made him seem incompetent; that he was the only failure of his family? Or maybe they'd be female, and then it wouldn't matter. They wouldn't look at her and think that she needed to learn how to fight with a sword. But if it was a he… Szayel stared ahead woodenly. He didn't know how he felt about this. Because regardless of the gender, Tsukiyo would be spending a lot less time with him after the child was born. His mother caught his sudden shift in mood and frowned.

"I don't see what the problem is, Szayel. Why does this bother you?" she inquired of him, and he finally turned his head to meet her eyes.

"You won't spend time with me anymore if you have a baby," he replied a little sourly.

His mother paused as she took in this bit of information, taking a good minute to formulate a reply. When she answered, it was softly. Reassuringly.

"It's true I'll spend more time with the baby because unlike you, a baby is helpless. It can't do anything by itself, so it needs more of my attention. But that doesn't mean I won't stop spending time with you."

"You stopped spending time with Yylfordt."

Lady Tsukiyo sighed, looking a little saddened.

"He stopped spending time with me first. I suppose he felt he was too old to be seen with his mother and moved on to things generally considered more appropriate for his age. But if he were to visit me, I would not turn him away."

That made sense. Yylfordt was almost obsessed with being the perfect child, something Szayel didn't quite understand since everything seemed to come to him anyways. He spent a great deal of time working with his instructors and speaking to their father, who enjoyed his company unlike Szayel's. Yylfordt was someone he could be proud of, someone he could entrust their noble house to when he was too old to properly uphold it. Hanging around his mother? He didn't need that to mar his reputation. But what was Yylfordt's loss was his gain, until now.

"Szayel… I don't want you to resent this child. You were never close with your older brother; I want you to love this one. Be a mentor, a figure for them to look up to."

"Why would they want to look up to me when they've got a better role model?" he retorted, brows knitting together, and Lady Tsukiyo's patience faltered for a moment. She looked at him with something close to irritation, and Szayel immediately snapped out of his little pet to pay attention. It wasn't often she lost her patience with him.

"Your self esteem has grown, Szayel. You are more confident in yourself than you were a year ago. So how is it that suddenly all of that is gone in an instant? Don't be ridiculous. Yylfordt is not the perfect person you see him as. He has faults. We all do. The difference is how we deal with our shortcomings, and you are dealing with them appallingly right now. You are right. This Szayel would not be a good role model to look up to."

"Mama… I-"

"No. Just stop. I don't want to hear your excuses."

"But-"

"You're whining."

Szayel paused. He was whining. She was right. He was acting ridiculous. He didn't want to be that weak, pathetic child that clung to others and complained about his own misfortune. Hadn't he been working on that? On building up his self image? Hadn't he told his older brother he'd not only match him but surpass him on his own strengths?

Yes. His own strengths. He had them. Yylfordt was good at fighting. Yylfordt was charismatic. Yylfordt devoted himself to his studies of state, of how to rule a feudal manor with all its servants and retainers. But he had his failings as well. Yylfordt was poor with strategy outside of melee combat. Yylfordt was excellent with getting the people he worked with frequently to do as he wanted, but faltered in his diplomacy with visiting dignitaries. And Yylfordt had never been interested in learning for the sake of learning. He learned what he had to, committed that to heart… but anything outside his immediate field of expertise was disregarded. He would be a lord in the truest sense of the word; a ruler of men. What use had he for understanding the ways they worked?

These failings of Yylfordt… these were Szayel's strengths. He nodded.

"I was. My apologies, okaa-san."

Lady Tsukiyo smiled and kissed the top of his head.

"That's my butterfly. That's the Szayel I love to see. I know you're still upset that I won't be spending as much time with you after the baby arrives, but I also want you to know this; if I seem a little distant, its because I know you can do this on your own."

"Do what?" he asked, a little melancholy and a little confused.

"Learn on your own. Teach yourself. Grow stronger without my help. Because you will. You'll keep on growing stronger and a day will come when you'll metamorphose again, into something even more wonderful. And that, Szayel, is when you'll understand who you truly are."

She tapped him on the nose, still smiling, and Szayel felt rather silly. That there was a whole cosmological joke, a reason for her smile that he didn't understand outside of a mother's pride in her own son. But she didn't give him a chance to mull on this for long as she promptly continued.

"I'll be leaving the poison garden to you for awhile. I trust that you know how to treat the plants correctly and always stay respectful of them and the dangers they pose."

"The poison garden? To me?"

His mother laughed, picking up her list of names again.

"I'm going to get clumsy later, and I don't want any accidents happening. Especially not when harm to me will also cause harm to this child. You're the only one who can care for it properly in my absence. I wouldn't entrust it to anyone else. And then it will be several years after the child is born before I can really go back to it."

"I… thank you," he said, not quite sure what to say. It was a responsibility he hadn't counted on, and one that made his heart swell with pride.

"I know how you like it anyways," she said with a mild grimace, "You know, sometimes I wonder about you, my love. Despite your reservations, you seem to lean towards the darker aspects of medicine."

"But it's interesting, why people don't like to acknowledge them simply because they're a little more… unorthodox."

"Unorthodox indeed."

She smiled fondly at him again, reaching out to smooth a hand over his hair, which was a little wild from his training bout with his teacher.

"So help me pick out names already."

-.-.-.-.-.-

Umeko was in bed for two days. The official excuse she gave was of feeling very ill to her stomach, but it was well known what the real cause was. During this time, Szayel visited her in the evenings to assess her recovery and administer more of the salve, which he explained was not something she should apply herself. Though his blood was a good safety against accidental poisoning, he didn't want to leave anything open to risk. Umeko had looked surprised when he'd explained what was in the salve- excluding of course mention of his blood –and doubly so when he'd shown her the aconite flowers.

"They look so pretty though."

He'd nodded, agreeing. They were pretty. But they were dangerous.

Her recovery really was quite miraculous though. Two days for a beating like the one she'd taken? He'd spent two days abed recovering himself. Granted, his had been practically a full one and she still limped and was very tender, but the worst of it had passed and she was no longer bedridden. Her bruising had also receded somewhat, though not to the degree his would have. And Umeko herself seemed much happier. Kaito was incensed, she informed him, upon seeing the marks on her body and had demanded to know who was responsible. She proceeded to giggle over the sweetness of his concern and he only got snatches of what had happened after that, but managed to glean that Nnoitra had gone unnamed.

Szayel smiled at her good cheer, glad for her, but behind his mild expression he felt a little sick. It seemed that those two had a deeper relationship than he'd figured, a rarity, but reality nonetheless. If Umeko was hopelessly in love, it wasn't at least completely onesided. If that would last, he did not know, but for the moment she had someone to turn to after her nightmare was over.

He didn't have that luxury. And he still had to face his nightmare that evening, one he owed a debt to that Nnoitra intended on collecting. Szayel didn't know what to expect. He never knew what to expect when it came to his client whose moods were so capricious. Yet even though he was unpredictable, liable to explode in anger or violence at the slightest provocation, there was still the other side to that coin. The times he showed genuine interest in some aspect of his personality or skills; those moments when he was almost jarringly tender, when he felt most uncomfortable with the taller man; when they talked, even if they'd only really done so once… Szayel dreaded Nnoitra's visits, but also looked forward to them. Because in the whole of his current world, they were all he had to look forward to. The only change and constant in his life. If it was a game that Nnoitra had started, that he played, then he gradually found himself becoming a participant more and more willingly.

The rest of his day passed in a blur. Nothing seemed as real or distinct as what waited for him in a few hours. The nauseating knot of nerves in his stomach, the fluttering feeling of anticipation. Nnoitra probably wouldn't be in the mood to talk. He'd already hinted at what he wanted from him the next time they met. The kiss in the hallway was a vivid reminder. Szayel closed his eyes, remembering. Very vivid. When Nnoitra finally arrived, Szayel greeted him with relief. Regardless of his mood, the wait was always worse than the confrontation. Doubt was an emotion Szayel couldn't stand.

Nnoitra's mood he couldn't quite place tonight. All he could discern was that he wasn't in a bad mood. His characteristic grin was absent as he entered, though as he drew close his lips quirked upwards suggestively.

"Let me see."

His laid a hand on his stomach, and Szayel's eyes flickered down to it for a moment before he looked back up into Nnoitra's face. Brushing off the hand, he undid his obi and opened his kimono, letting it slide down to his waist. His skin was smooth, free of tenderness and even the faintest tracery of bruising. Nnoitra's lips twitched into a slight frown as he shook his head.

"So not even that lasted. I didn't expect it to, but it's different actually seeing for myself."

Szayel shrugged and began to pull his kimono back over his shoulders, but Nnoitra stopped him with a pointed look.

"I told you you owe me for last week and we still have to pay off tonight. Leave it off."

He nodded and with a smirk, Nnoitra leaned in for a kiss.

Szayel didn't know what he had been expecting. Nnoitra was as good with his mouth as always. That tongue of his always managed to steal his breath away in seconds, and as he settled himself on the bed and closed the distance between them, Szayel arched up into it, arms coming up to wrap around his shoulders as Nnoitra pulled his body to him. No… he didn't know what he had been expecting from this man, but feeling something squirm between their chests certainly wasn't it. Szayel promptly pulled back, surprised, and Nnoitra finally grinned, reaching into his clothes. Out of them he pulled a rather bedraggled looking puppy.

"Almost forgot. I brought something unexpected with me today. I found it on the side of the road on my way over."

A puppy. Why had Nnoitra brought a puppy? Szayel gave him an odd look as he reached for it, taking the small bundle of fluff in his hands. It blinked at him with sleepy eyes, waving its curled tail faintly, and he smiled back at the creature tentatively. Settling it in his lap, he stroked it absentmindedly while he reached for Nnoitra's hand. Nnoitra didn't offer his up voluntarily, so he retreated after a moment. It seemed Nnoitra really didn't want to talk. He felt a twinge of disappointment.

"Do you like dogs, Shizuka?"

He nodded. He hadn't particularly cared about dogs as a child since he hadn't had much time for them and his mother for whatever reason felt uncomfortable around them so he'd rarely interacted with them. It was one of her peculiarities. However, he didn't dislike them as she did, and holding the puppy, he felt at ease. Even a little happy. It was so tiny and helpless, placing its trust through necessity to the two people who now hovered around it. It was at the mercy of strangers, a feeling he knew well. Something in him reached out to the dog in his lap.

"I figured you'd be a dog person."

Szayel glanced up at Nnoitra, questioning. Though the statement could have stood on its own, he seemed to have something else he hadn't yet commented on. At his searching look, Nnoitra continued.

"Do you smile at or around other clients that way?"

The question caught him off guard, and his eyes widened a fraction before he collected himself enough to shake his head hesitantly. Nnoitra grinned, triumphant.

"You smile for me. I think you don't realize you do it half the time, but you do. And I know you look forward to our visits. You like the attention. You like it when I talk to you. You resist when I try to force information out of you, but that's natural. You need someone to be there for you, something constant to open up. And even if you're cynical, you value loyalty and would do things for others for the relationship you have established, even if they are detrimental to yourself. You honor agreements; you have pride. And though you are loathe to admit this, you have a weakness for compassion. Perhaps because you are shown so little.

Dogs provide all that unconditionally. The sense of security, the loyalty and attention and love. Companionship. You are very much like a dog, Shizuka, and they are pack animals after all."

So that was it then. He'd picked the thing up as another tool to belittle him. To remind him of their differing social statuses. Comparing him to a dog. His hands shook as he continued to run his fingers through the puppy's fur, but he refrained from taking out his frustration on the animal.

"You're pissed at me now," he observed of Szayel's darkened expression, and the prostitute stared down at the bundle of fluff in his lap.

"There's that pride again. Must be hard, being someone once and now… no one. Nothing."

Nnoitra suddenly plucked up the puppy, and Szayel looked up, immediately alert for what he was up to. There was a point he was trying to make, and the sudden chill of foreboding down his spine warned him that it involved the dog and it wasn't going to be good. Nnoitra held it around the middle in one hand, his long fingers easily circling its belly. It whined at this uncomfortable position, moving its back legs uselessly. Its curled tail was tucked between them, slightly uncurled now in this defensive posture, and Szayel could see it was male.

"Like this dog. Abandoned on the side of the road. Gods know what happened to his mother; probably dead, since she never would have left him otherwise. And until I happened by and picked him up, he had no future. He was just waiting for death, too young to fend for himself."

Unbeknownst to the man who casually imagined the wretched life of the animal he held, his words struck a deeper chord in Szayel. Because the comparison was so apt, more apt than he could ever know. The imagined life settling over his shoulders heavily, making him hunch them miserably with the weight of a past he'd rather not recall. He closed his eyes, hands clenched together.

"It might as well die."

Szayel's eyes flew open, looking up into Nnoitra's face. Nnoitra looked away from him, at the animal he held with critical dispassion.

"It'll die in ten years or so anyways, assuming someone cares for it. You can't keep it here, and I'm not going to bother myself over playing with it and feeding it. So I might as well end its sorry life before it suffers more. Besides, its mine to do what I want with."

Szayel watched, shocked, as Nnoitra drew his washizaki, appearing to consider how best to kill the thing. At his scandalized look, his eyes swiveled over to Szayel and he grinned, setting the knife aside.

"No, you're right. That would make a mess. I'll just break its neck."

Nnoitra's fingers crept up to the puppy's throat teasingly, but Szayel no longer saw. His mind was lost on the last five words Nnoitra had spoken so nonchalantly, and when he snapped, he was a whirlwind of instinct. He launched himself at Nnoitra, one hand grabbing the washizaki, the other pushing him backwards off the bed. They landed in a heap on the floor, and Nnoitra grunted as his head cracked against the ground. His hold on the dog loosened, and the animal scampered away fearfully as he let go of it.

"Shit," Nnoitra muttered thickly, trying to throw off the wild man straddling his waist, but Szayel dug an elbow into his stomach, and the hands shoving at him weakened. Szayel twisted these cruelly over his head with one hand, pressing down at an awkward angle until he heard Nnoitra cry out and felt him arch in pain. He stopped just short of breaking them, taking satisfaction in the way he breathed raggedly and looked up at him fearfully when he levered the knife over his throat.

"Fuck!"

Szayel gazed down into his eyes, his own hard. Nnoitra would get what he deserved. He would finally get what he deserved. But as he watched Nnoitra's expression shift from fear to panic to rage to helplessness to desperation, denial… a spectrum of emotions, he hesitated. Nnoitra noticed, but proud individual that he was, he didn't seize it as an opportunity to beg. He challenged him, defiant.

"You can't kill me! You don't have the spine!"

Szayel's teeth curled back into a silent, feral snarl at this provocation, and he pressed the blade against his throat. It sliced into the flesh, drawing blood, and he watched it trickle down his throat, a vibrant red. Beautiful red. Such a beautiful color. His blood was red too, no different seeming from any other. Except it was. And it didn't matter how his blood healed him, didn't do him any good because Nnoitra knew about his blood and he knew to kill him other ways. And Nnoitra would kill him. He would kill him because Szayel had finally threatened. He'd made himself a threat, so Nnoitra had to die. He had to die for Szayel to continue living.

But what kind of life? His hands shook, the blade retreating slightly from its bloody post. In the aftermath of this, killing his client, people would come after him. He'd have to kill more people. Nnoitra had demanded to know once before why he didn't tell about his abuse; because it didn't matter. In the end it all didn't matter. He was that puppy. That poor, pathetic, wretched little puppy. No home to call his own, his family dead, his past buried and his future nonexistent. He was at the mercy of the House and his clients, who came and went like ships in the harbor, all except for Nnoitra. His only constant in this hell of a life, his only lifeline to reality. And it was a reality he'd rather forget, because it was too cruel to live.

"Drop the knife, Shizuka. We both know you aren't going to do it."

Szayel screamed then, a sound of unadulterated rage. All his frustration, all his resentment and anguish and bitterness and despair all built up into that sound, but it was only half a scream for his voice cut out as the pitch rose. But he kept on screaming as he forced the knife back against Nnoitra's neck, eyes closed and straining against the block that rendered him mute. Fighting, with all his energy, what he knew to be a useless battle. And if he'd looked down at that time, he might have seen Nnoitra's jaded look of scorn change to surprise at his intensity, as if he too could hear the sound in his mind. The momentary flash of worry that crossed his face. But he needn't have worried. It was his last resistance.

He stopped fighting what, as Nnoitra had pointed out, they both knew he wasn't going to do. Even pushed to the brink, even knowing he would probably die for his actions, even firmly believing Nnoitra deserved to die, he couldn't do it. There just wasn't any point anymore. He'd seen prostitutes kill themselves after the hope wore off, those of more fragile temperaments. This work killed. If not early on, then gradually. It devoured the spirit and the body followed later, rotting as well. Because how many more years could he take of this? Five? Ten? Fifteen? He'd stopped living a long time ago.

He was crying. Nnoitra always seemed to make him cry. He didn't cry any other time, not even when he was alone and memories overwhelmed him. He didn't cry in front of anyone else, not even when he was stricken with a sudden feeling of hopelessness. That this was all temporary, that this life was fleeting and tomorrow would be another day, but nothing would change. Not really. His mother would forgive him for breaking his promise. She'd forgive him for not being brave anymore, for wanting to finally rest… Szayel's hands shook. He loosened his grip on Nnoitra's wrists and moved the washizaki away from Nnoitra's neck, letting the tip droop against the floor, letting his shoulders and head slump forward, his tears continuing to fall all the while.

Then heat, circling his neck. Pressing. The washizaki dropped from his hands as he reached up, scrabbling at the fingers surrounding his throat. A breathless rattle escaped him as he tried to breathe, but Nnoitra was merciless. He thrashed at first, his body struggling to live in spite of his sudden nihilistic leanings. Instinct. But his struggling quickly diminished as his limbs grew leaden and he gasped like a dying fish, world spinning. Everything was spinning, a sickening kaleidoscope of images that didn't make sense. Blurred colors and shapes, transforming into figures that seemed familiar one moment but strange the next. His hands fell away from Nnoitra's as his body grew slack, vision finally giving way to darkness as he slipped into unconsciousness.

Nnoitra held on a few moments longer, watching the prostitute's lips take on a blue tinge before the significance of that color really registered with him. Then reluctantly, as if expecting Szayel to spring back to wakefulness and finish what he'd started, he released his throttling grip on his throat. Szayel collapsed against him, limp and out cold, but he was breathing again, the air rasping in and out of his slightly parted mouth. Nnoitra felt his chest rise and fall painfully against his and simply lay there, trying to absorb all that had just happened before he finally pulled himself upright. Szayel's deadweight still rested on him heavily, and he contemplated pushing him off, but the sight of the puppy still cowering across the room gave him pause. He stared at it silently for a minute, feeling its wide, brown eyes upon him, wary, and at last his face cracked into a bitter grin.

"It wasn't supposed to happen this way, you know. I wasn't really going to kill you, just see what he would have done. But hell… how was I supposed to know he'd try to kill me for it? I just wanted him to beg."

The puppy was silent. He'd expected it to have been barking its head off by now, but it was silent. Like the man in his arms. Nnoitra shifted him so he could see his face. His lips were losing the blue tint, cheeks returning to a normal color, but he looked listless. Drawn and tired, and while he was still beautiful he seemed faded somehow. Aged. He couldn't have been older than him, yet he suddenly wondered how long he'd been here. He'd seen the despair in his face, right when he'd finally given up.

"You… I don't understand you. Why you'd give your life for a dog. For some mutt picked up off the street. Why when you're proud, you'd still value your own life so little. Huh? Makes no fucking sense."

Talking to an unconscious, mute whore. Of all the ways he could be spending his evening, this was what he'd chosen to do. He was the one who didn't make any sense. Nnoitra glanced back over at the dog, stretching a hand out to beckon it over.

"Come on then. Join the festivities."

The animal refused, and his bitter grin widened as a wry sort of amusement afflicted him.

"Smart dog. You know better than to come over here."

Nnoitra scooped one hand under his knees and supported his back with the other as he rose stiffly, walking over to the bed. His throat stung where the smaller man had cut him and the back of his head ached where it had hit the floor, but both were minor injuries. Szayel could have slit his throat or cracked his skull or broken his arms, but he'd done nothing, and why he hadn't, Nnoitra didn't really understand. His barbs had been a bluff; Szayel struck him as someone capable of killing if he truly desired to, yet he hadn't even maimed him.

With more consideration than he might have shown him while conscious, Nnoitra laid him out across the bed, letting his fingers linger over his bruising throat and soft, pink locks. Such a ridiculous color, yet it suited him. His hand brushed over his collar, down his pale, smooth chest, and he couldn't resist the urge to lean in and kiss that exposed skin. That body he'd pictured moving under him, hot and dirtied by his touch. Flushed and damp with perspiration, almost clinging to his skin as he arched into his thrusts. His, for an evening, those golden eyes half lidded and hazed with lust, that pink hair splayed out across the pillows as his mind was filled only with him. Soft, painted lips kissing his, and a devilish tongue dancing in his mouth, challenging his authority and skill.

He groaned against him, hands fisting, frustration washing over him as he forced himself to pull away and leave him lying.

"…Should break you…" he mumbled to the man he paid for, "I should fucking break you for what you almost did. The dog and you."

But he wouldn't, much as it appealed to him he wouldn't. He sighed.

"You still owe me. I can't collect on that debt if you're dead."

And then, there was one more thing… one other reason he was reluctant to voice. Even knowing there was no one to hear him. No one but one unconscious prostitute and a dumb animal. Nnoitra retrieved his washizaki, stowing it back in its sheath, and walked over to the dog. It bared its teeth at him as he crouched down a few feet away from it, and Nnoitra gave it a stern look as he proffered his hand.

"Act stupid and I will discipline you," he said, and the puppy bared its teeth and growled warningly but did not snap when he finally reached out to stroke its head. After a minute, it allowed him to pick it up again, calmer now but still more anxious than it had been at the start of the evening. Nnoitra continued to stroke it, relieving some of the tension that had built up in his body through the soothing, repetitive action, and looked over to Szayel again.

He could take him anyways. Wake him up and fuck him hard. But he'd been looking forward to a different sort of evening, and that had been ruined now.

"Crazy bitch," he muttered, shaking his head as he walked over to the door. He paused at the exit however, finally giving up the words he'd been reluctant to speak, and it was almost cathartic to hear them out loud.

"But things wouldn't be as interesting without you."

And then he was gone, closing the door behind him as he walked away from the room and its listless sleeper. There'd be another week, another day to continue his games. Shizuka was going nowhere; that was something he could count on.

* * *

**A/N**: Autoridad means authority. Another easy title to guess. And as I'm feeling unaccountably lazy today, I don't think I shall include a long author's note. Rejoice, I guess. Less spam at the end of this chapter.

Sorry for the late update. I lost my writing mojo and am now horrendously behind on Nanowrimo. Here's another 6k to add to my word count I guess. I need upwards of 20k to catch up. Lovely. But who knows, maybe I'll suddenly hit a manic spree and churn out 10k+ in a day. (Don't count on it. The end of my college quarter is coming up. x_x)

Just a few comments on the chapter itself; we're approaching the end of the first part of Mariposa. Little Szayel has just reached a peak in self confidence while our current Szayel has just reached an all-time low, but things aren't going to stay this way. This chapter marks a turning point, as major changes lie but a few chapters ahead, which I am excited for. We get a little Nnoitra POV meanwhile at the end of the chapter, introducing some alternate perspective. I might throw that in there again in the future at some point since I rather like doing his perspective.

… I feel I laid everything on too heavy in this chapter. T_T I don't particularly like my writing style with this one, and here I'd been looking forward to writing it. My attempt at stream of consciousness still needs work too. Ah well. Read and review if you liked I suppose, and I'll see you in the next update. This A/N still ended up long. v.v;;


	10. Digno

Yylfordt was not happy, and that was putting it lightly. More accurately, he was beyond pissed. Szayel could feel this before his older brother even set foot in their mother's study where the two of them had been for an hour already, pouring over diagrams and discussing the physiology of newborns. It preceded him, an ill wind of hostility pressing against the thin, paper door, which silhouetted his lithe figure. They both looked up to greet him as he stormed in, lips twisted in a scowl and brows set in an angry V. He took one look at Szayel, scowled even more fiercely, and pointedly ignored him as he turned to Lady Tsukiyo.

"Okaa-san, I need to talk to you."

"Of course Yylfordt, you know I'm always willing to listen," she replied soothingly, inviting him to come sit down. He refused, standing stiffly and looking down at her, though his eyes would occasionally flicker over to Szayel.

"Alone. I don't want him listening," Yylfordt finally said. Their mother raised a brow.

"And what is it you so urgently have to talk to me about that you cannot resolve with your father? I don't think its fair to your little brother to kick him out in the middle of a lesson."

Yylfordt looked poised to walk out then, spine rigid with pride and righteous anger, and Szayel resisted the temptation to roll his eyes at him and make some sort of deprecating remark. However, his brother reigned in his impulse after a moment. Arrogant though Yylfordt could be, he still wasn't stupid enough to disdain Lady Tsukiyo after asking her help.

"It's about a girl, ok?" he answered tersely, crossing his arms, and their mother smiled at him sweetly.

"What about this girl?" she asked.

Yylfordt twitched, actually twitched, and looked over at him. Szayel looked back, keeping his face impassive, but inside he was smirking. With Yylfordt this defensive, it was bound to be something good.

"I don't want to talk about it in front of him," he repeated stubbornly. Their mother sighed.

"Yylfordt…"

"She called me pretty!" he shouted, half hysterical. A momentary silence followed this outburst while the blonde fumed, cheeks coloring impressively. Szayel stared, at first disbelieving that Yylfordt would lose his poise in front of him so spectacularly, then grinning, unable to help himself. He'd been struggling with this problem most of his life, and it appeared, from the magnitude of his hysteria, that this wasn't the first time Yylfordt had dealt with it either. He distantly remembered his mother telling him of Yylfordt's early years, how he had to struggle to prove himself to those around him that he was more than a pretty face, and all of a sudden his obsession with becoming the perfect successor to their father made sense. Yylfordt was fighting with his own complex.

His older brother didn't miss the grin, however, and promptly whirled on him.

"You get out now!" he commanded, but Szayel didn't budge. Just sat there, smiling up at him innocuously. Even Lady Tsukiyo was smiling faintly now, though she hid this behind one of her sleeves.

"Dear, I think that's all the more reason for your brother to listen. He has a similar problem as you well know."

"I'm not a weak little brat like him!"

"I'm not weak," Szayel objected, cutting in with a scowl. Yylfordt shot him a cynical look.

"Oh really? Then I guess you aren't still stuck in elementary swordsmanship either."

"Well at least I'm not stupid! You can't even put together a military counter formation that's halfway useful!"

"Shut the hell up!"

"You shut up!"

"Boys…" Lady Tsukiyo interjected warningly, but she was ignored by feuding pair who by this point were both on their feet and screaming insults at each other.

"Useless!"

"Ignorant!"

"Failure!"

"Moron!"

"Boys!" their mother shouted, reaching the end of her tolerance, and they both looked over at her startled. She gazed down at them, unamused, her eyes even a little cold. "Both of you, be quiet! This is a place of learning, not warmongering. Save that for the training grounds. You can shriek all you want and bash each other over the heads to your hearts' content with swords for all I care, but here you will respect my rules. Understood?"

"Yes, okaa-san," they both agreed sullenly, and she nodded, curt.

"Good. Now go sit down next to each other. Yylfordt, talk your problem out with your little brother. Szayel, listen to Yylfordt and do not make deprecating or sardonic remarks about what he says. The both of you, work out your petty little feud already. I'm going to leave and go have a walk in my garden, and by the time I get back I expect you to have reached some sort of truce."

"Mama," Szayel protested, and Yylfordt didn't look any happier. She sent them both unsympathetic looks, shook her head, and stood.

"Half an hour, loves. Or else."

With a delicate swish, she left the room, leaving them both to stand awkwardly with each other. The atmosphere was still tense from their fight, and without Tsukiyo to mediate, neither was sure what to do. Yylfordt was the one who flopped down first, sitting and crossing his arms. He glared over at Szayel expectantly, and the pink haired child followed his older brother suit. Sitting down, he pulled his knees up to his chest and stared woodenly ahead at the wall. They both remained this way for a minute or two before Szayel finally broke the silence.

"So…"

Yylfordt snorted.

"You are not playing psychologist for me. We're going to sit here until she gets back and pretend we made up. Got it?"

Szayel shot him a dirty look, uncurling his legs.

"I don't like the idea of listening to you whine any better, but she's going to know. She's not stupid."

"Well even if I went along with this, its not like you could say anything useful. You're only nine. What do you know about women?"

"You're only thirteen. I hardly think you can call yourself a man."

"I'm more of a man than you are."

"Which is why you're getting called pretty," Szayel remarked sarcastically. Yylfordt glowered, eyes burning a hole in the wall, and drew up his knees defensively. They now sat in opposite positions from the ones they'd began in.

"Look, I don't need to justify myself to you. You're even more effeminate than me. At least my hair isn't pink, and I can fight properly. Father is proud of me. He's not ashamed to call me his heir. I worked for this! What do you do? Nothing. You couldn't understand. You've already accepted that people think of you as a girl," his brother declared scornfully, brown eyes flickering over to him resentfully. Szayel felt the familiar old bitterness flare in his chest, and he glared back.

"No, you're the one who doesn't understand! I spent so many years trying to live up to you. Walking in your shadow. Feeling everyone look at me with disdain because I wasn't you. It wasn't until I finally accepted that I didn't have to follow the same path as you that I was able to escape that. I've worked for what I do too! Have you ever killed someone, Yylfordt? Have you? Have you ever actually cut someone open? Have you seen people bleeding, dying, convulsing? Limbs severed, stomachs gashed open and screaming themselves unconscious? Well have you? Because I have. I've done and seen all of that. And you still dare call me weak?"

Silence followed the aftermath of their denunciations as each brother looked at the other, understanding some of the conflict that plagued them better; Szayel realizing that Yylfordt had only made his success seem effortless. But Yylfordt was the one who seemed quieter when all was said and done, and Szayel realized he'd said too much. The details of their nightly lessons were supposed to be secret.

"Nii-san, I…" he fumbled, not sure how to recover from his impassioned outburst.

"What… the hell is it you do with mother?" Yylfordt asked, frowning, "Cutting people open? Killing? What are you talking about?"

"I… I can't tell you. She told me to keep it a secret from everyone. Just forget about what I said. Please?" Szayel begged, anxious. Although… it was his brother. He was family. Did the exclusion apply to him too?

"You talk about watching people die and yet you expect me to just _forget_? Isn't she teaching you medicine? Plants and bandages and splints?"

"Stop it!" Szayel cried, covering his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head slightly at his brother's interrogation, "There's… there's more to it. But you can't tell anyone, ok? You know when mama healed your leg and arm? How quickly she did it, just placing her hands on you? That's magic. Magic, Yylfordt, and she's been using it to simulate war victims and the like through illusions. For me to practice."

Yylfordt paled a little at the word.

"Magic? Have you heard her call it magic?"

"Yes…" Szayel replied, confused by his elder brother's sudden trepidation.

"Shit!"

"What? What's wrong?" he asked, now apprehensive as well at Yylfordt's vehemence. Yylfordt shot him an incredulous look.

"You call me ignorant and yet you don't know? Think! Humans can't use magic! There are some humans who are blessed with the gods' favor who can channel their divine power, I'd just assumed she was one of them."

It was true. He'd made the observation himself when she'd first began to teach him. That humans couldn't use magic. But she'd said… she'd said they were special. Different. That the rule didn't apply to them. Szayel blanched.

"No… no way…"

"She's not human. She's… I don't know what she is, but she's not human. She's some sort of youkai. Or half youkai maybe…"

"But… Yylfordt, what does that make us?" Szayel asked, frightened now. He knew he was a little different. Knew his blood wasn't the same as everyone else's, but he hadn't really made the connection. Perhaps some part of him had held himself in ignorance, to spare him of the truth. All of a sudden, it became crucial, very crucial for him to know if Yylfordt was the same.

"I don't know," his elder brother replied, looking equally shaken. "I guess… we're not completely human either."

They both sat there gravely, eyes narrowed and staring off into space. But while Yylfordt brooded on this revelation, Szayel felt the question of their blood eat at him. He was poised to ask when Yylfordt laughed wryly.

"Suddenly being called pretty seems very minor," he remarked pragmatically, tucking a stray lock of his blonde hair behind one ear. Szayel looked at him dubiously.

"We get our looks from our mother," Szayel commented, and they both quieted at the real question.

"God… what does she really look like?" Yylfordt breathed, looking suddenly weary.

"Do we really look like this? Or is it an illusion?" Szayel remarked, eyes fixed on his hands. It was terrible, not knowing. The possibility that his life… their lives had been falsified.

"I don't know… have you ever noticed anything different about yourself?" Yylfordt asked, "You look more like her than I do."

Szayel's heart skittered nervously, and he clenched his hands, considering. What if he told Yylfordt and he treated him like he was some sort of monster? He didn't think he could stand that. Being ridiculed for his looks was bad enough.

"I… don't know either. What about you?"

Yylfordt shook his head, and Szayel felt his stomach knot. He remembered his mother had told him that her blood flowed most strongly in his veins, that Yylfordt had some of it, but it was very minute. The words took on new meaning now that he viewed them through a different lens. But how did that make sense? Yylfordt and Szayel were brothers. Why had he inherited more of her… otherworldly blood?

"But… she loves us," he said softly, "Whatever she is, she loves us."

"She lied to us, Szayel."

"She just didn't tell us the truth. She probably wanted to protect us."

"Does father know? Does father know he married a youkai?"

Szayel didn't know, but instinctively, he knew he didn't want Yylfordt telling him in case he didn't. He didn't want her to be hurt. She was, after all, still his mother. Szayel abruptly tackled Yylfordt to the floor without warning, and his brother's eyes went wide as he toppled backwards.

"… the hell?" he managed before Szayel cut in.

"You can't tell him!" he ordered wildly, "I don't care what she is, you can't tell him!"

"Szayel, get off!" Yylfordt huffed, shoving him away, but Szayel wrapped his arms around his torso and clung to him, refusing to let go until he'd heard him out and agreed.

"No! Let me ask her about it first! Please? Yylfordt, let me ask her…"

Unaccustomed to this kind of display from his younger brother, Yylfordt wasn't sure what to do with him. So he sat there, feeling that he should probably pry him off while the seconds ticked by, and ultimately did nothing.

"Ok… sure… whatever. But if she doesn't want to talk, then I'm telling father," he said, surrendering, and Szayel let go, sitting back on his heels while his brother pulled himself upright.

"Thank you, nii-san," Szayel said with a crooked smile, and Yylfordt grumbled, straightening his clothes.

"You're crazy, you know that Szayel? Absolutely crazy."

The pink haired child offered his older brother a serious look.

"Maybe, but think about it this way Yylfordt. If father doesn't know, what will he think of us when he finds out? Do you think he would still consider you as his legitimate heir? There are too many variables… too many things that could go wrong. So let me feel things out first. Then… we can decide what to do."

Yylfordt grimaced at his words.

"You're right. We can't be impulsive. But what are we supposed to do when she returns? How are we supposed to act around her?"

"The same way," Szayel replied practically, and Yylfordt shook his head.

"That's impossible. She'll know something is up."

"Then we confront her."

"I don't want to do that either!"

"Oh be a man, Yylfordt!" Szayel shouted, and at that very moment, the door opened. They both jumped as Lady Tsukiyo walked in, turning around to look at her guiltily. She raised an elegant brow at their culpable reactions, closing the door behind her.

"I take it you two have been having a lively discussion?" she inquired mildly. The two exchanged looks, then glanced back up at their mother.

"Ah…" stalled Yylfordt.

"Yes," replied Szayel.

"You two seem to have resolved your conflict," she observed. Silence followed her words as the both of them considered how to respond to her comment, but just as Szayel mustered the courage to ask the question they both needed to hear, Yylfordt spoke up.

"So when were you planning on telling us about what you are?" he demanded, and their mother blinked, taken off guard.

"What are you boys talking about-?" she began before Szayel cut in.

"Please don't lie to us, or say you don't know what we mean mama. You know perfectly well, so tell us. We'd like to know about the part of us that isn't human."

Lady Tsukiyo inhaled slowly, her eyes fluttering closed, and seemed to sway a little on the spot as she exhaled. When she opened her eyes again, she seemed more collected and offered the two of them a sad, rueful smile.

"I suppose now is as good a time as any to have this talk. But yes, you are correct. Neither of you is completely human, though I do question the conversation that led up to this sudden revelation. Weren't you two supposed to be talking about Yylfordt's female crisis?"

"That was never going to happen," Yylfordt said staunchly, and Tsukiyo sighed, walking over to them and sitting down.

"No, I guess not. But you can't blame a mother for trying. So what is it you want to know about your heritage?"

"Start with what kind of youkai you are," Szayel said, and their mother's weary look brightened, turning into a mischievous grin.

"Calling me a demon now? Really my loves, what gall. Who ever said I was a youkai?"

-.-.-.-.-.-

Waking up that next morning was probably one of the worst experiences of his life. The moment his eyes cracked open, he shut them again, not daring to look around in case he was dead after all. But as the ache that ringed his throat began to pain him, he forced them open again, and a flood of disappointment washed over him. He was still in the House, on his own bed, stiff and cold… but very much still alive.

Nnoitra was gone, of course, but he still instinctively looked around for him. For the evidence that he'd been there. But all that remained as evidence were the purple finger shaped bruises he knew to be around his throat. Szayel touched the tender spots absently; these too would fade, and then the only evidence would be in his own mind. The only way for Nnoitra's abuse to last permanently would be if he died.

But why hadn't he? Why hadn't Nnoitra killed him? He'd started, choking him. Cutting off his air. Killing him without spilling blood. He could have asphyxiated him, or twisted his neck easily. Why had he let him live? After turning on him… the practical thing to do was dispatch him. But for better or for worse, Szayel lived.

As the week crawled by, he only became more and more convinced that it was for the latter. He spent most of his free time in isolation, sitting out in the courtyard with a koto singing to himself while his eyes gazed blankly into the sky above, lost in the blue and white of the clouds scudding by. Several times on his way to and from his favorite spot, he'd pause by the poppies, gazing at them and knowing that in a drawer in his room, there was an easy escape, but he could never bring himself to act on these idle musings.

Some of the evenings he'd be called, and that in itself was a distraction. But those nights spent in the embrace of another reminded him too much of that which he'd rather forget and as soon as he was able, he fled from his room to the baths and submersed himself in the hot water, staying under the surface as long as his lungs could bear it and each time pushing himself to last a little longer, take another step closer to the edge… But Torako caught him at it once, dragging him up from his watery escape and reprimanding him. Chastised, he quit this, but he also avoided the other girls from then on as much as possible. They were reminders as well, of his situation.

And then at some point, the numbness faded. Dread replaced that feeling as the week drew to a close and Nnoitra's visit loomed near. He paced his room, feeling increasingly cornered and claustrophobic as time passed. He must have looked half mad, his hair straggling slightly out of its pinned coils with an intense, anxious expression on his face. His features looked a little drawn, for sleep no longer came to him easily. But as the day itself arrived, that manic energy changed again. He stopped stalking around the room and seemed almost to drift instead. He found his fingers lingered longingly over odd things; the wood of one bedpost, the glass of a bottle of ink, the silken, embroidered cloth of an obi… This last one he paused over, lifting it up to examine and pulling the cloth taut for a moment before listlessly letting it flutter to the ground.

In the hour before his client came, he finally sat down on his bed; to one side of him, his sheaf of papers, ink, and brush. In his hands he turned over the knife Nnoitra had given him, spinning it, shifting it, watching the light glitter off the hilt but never letting it come to rest. He'd done up his hair again, so that it lay neatly in placed, pink locks shiny and smooth, though the black and gold hair ornaments he'd been gifted took the place of his usual assortment. Outside the movement of his hands and the knife, he was preternaturally still. And it was in this state that Nnoitra found him as he entered.

Szayel didn't look up as he heard the door open, didn't even react. Not when the toes of Nnoitra's shoes came to rest on the perimeter of his eyesight. His amber eyes remained fixed on the sheathed weapon in his hands.

"Going to kill yourself? Or have you made up your mind to kill me after all?"

His hands stilled their repetitive motion, but Szayel still did not look up. It was the only indication that he'd heard.

"I think we established last week you aren't going to do that, so it must be the former then. Unless it's neither?"

He felt he could have imitated the old mannequin he used to work with pretty well right then, for he didn't even flinch as Nnoitra sat down next to him. But as the taller man ran a thumb over his cheek and leaned in to nip at the shell of his ear, he couldn't help the reflexive tightening of his hands on the knife he still held. He was treated to Nnoitra's next words breathed into his ear, his warm breath tickling the skin there and making his scalp prickle.

"What have you been doing with yourself this past week, Shizuka? You look dead."

Szayel closed his eyes, as if by shutting them he could ignore the man next to him. But Nnoitra wasn't one to be ignored. He felt the dagger removed from his hands, and the smooth wood of his brush placed into them instead. A weight on his lap followed as his papers were transferred there, and as he opened his eyes again, he saw Nnoitra's hand place the ink jar on top of these. He stared down at them for a moment, then finally looked over at him. This movement was rewarded with a grin.

"Go on then, I know you want to talk."

Szayel shook his head.

"Liar."

He felt Nnoitra's fingers in his hair, smoothing over the ornaments thoughtfully before he pulled them out slowly, one by one.

"You only think you've given up. Is that why you wore these? Why you have the knife? As a final presentation. Are you hoping I'll kill you?"

His hair unwound, falling over his shoulders, and as Nnoitra continued to speak, he felt weary. He didn't want to meet his eyes. Didn't want to trouble himself with his games anymore. But Nnoitra didn't let him turn away, one hand catching his chin and forcing him to look up. Szayel closed his eyes, only to feel Nnoitra's mouth on his a moment later. It was a fleeting kiss, very brief, for he broke away to speak again.

"Well I'm not impressed. You have to give me a better showing than this, Shizuka. Convince me you're not worth my time anymore."

Szayel's fingers reached for the ink pot, uncorking it and dipping the brush inside. His eyes flickered down to the page as he wrote out a short, apathetic reply.

_Do whatever._

Nnoitra's good eye followed the brush strokes before returning to his. He let go of his chin.

"This isn't you."

_You don't even know who I am._

"But this still isn't you."

_And why do you care? If it's sex you came for, then have it. I can even pretend to reciprocate your passion._

"If I came for just sex, then I'd pick one of the other prostitutes here."

_Then what do you want? What do you want from me Nnoitra? You bring me gifts, ask me about my past, pick fights with me for the sole purpose of emphasizing your own superiority, compliment me and build up my self worth only to break me down again… you beat me and then tell me to sing, and ask the words when I'm done. You… are both gentle and cruel. I do not understand you. I do not understand what you want. Why you come, week after week. Why you choose to spend your time doing this. Why, if I'm worthless, you still deign to pay for me._

Emotion crept into his face as he wrote, and he really couldn't help it. Despite his will to stop caring, bringing up his frustrations one by one, he relived them. All the confusion, the hurt that followed every one of his visits. The misery of not knowing, but still expectantly hanging on to the next time he saw him. He didn't know if Nnoitra would answer him, these questions that had been festering in his mind for two months now. He didn't really expect him to, but when he had finished, Nnoitra didn't remain silent for long. There was a minute's pause as his eyes swept over the words, reading them, then his mouth quirked upwards.

"And why does it matter to you? I'm just a client. A regular, but nothing more than a customer in the end."

Szayel scowled, writing out a cynical reply.

_If you were just a customer, I would not have these troubles. I would not care why you were here. But you cross that boundary. You ask questions. You pry into my life. It is impossible for me to treat you the same, to think of you the same way. Not when you've played witness to me at my weakest... And you provoked that on purpose. You've seen me angry, happy, despairing. Why is it so important to you to see all these reactions?_

This time, Nnoitra was quiet for much longer. Szayel looked up from his writing, searching his face for some sign of what he was feeling or thinking. Instead of an answer, he got an action as Nnoitra reached over to cork the ink and take away his brush and paper. Szayel's shoulders slumped forward a little as he perceived the conversation to have ended. Just as he suspected, he wouldn't be receiving an answer. And then he spoke.

"You've already got a good idea of the ways I work, even if I'm contradictory sometimes. But you want a reason why…"

Nnoitra said this musingly as he set aside the writing supplies, his katana and washizaki following as he untied them from his waist. Szayel eyed him warily as he placed his weapons on the floor, knowing what this foreshadowed.

"You probably think it isn't fair, me knowing about you and you not knowing a thing about me. Probably think my moods strange. So I'll tell you a little about me."

He untied the sash that kept his coat closed and shrugged it off, letting it drop as he reached for Szayel's obi. His arms circled him, tugging at the tie in the back, and Szayel felt the cloth loosen as he pulled it free.

"I come from a noble family; a feudal manor. But I'm not some retainer's son; I'm the son of a lord."

Nnoitra's fingers slid under the fabric of his kimono, teasing it open, slipping it down over his shoulders. One hand splayed across his now bare chest while the other cupped under his knees, lifting them so they were on the bed and no longer dangled over the edge.

"The only problem is, I'm the third son. I'm considered irrelevant. So you can see where this leaves me a little… upset."

He applied weight to the hand on Szayel's chest, pushing him down, and Szayel eased back into the cushions stiffly, not quite liking how calm he sounded. Anger he knew what to expect with, but he not this delayed reaction. He tried to soothe his prickling nerves as Nnoitra leaned over him, but it was a difficult task.

"So I rebel. I pick fights. I go out and sleep with whores and generally bring dishonor to my family. I don't try to be a perfect son, because I was fated by birth to never be heir. I'm the black sheep, but no one cares. I'm not important. They tolerate my activities because I don't matter."

Nnoitra's hands tangled in his hair, wrapping it around his fingers luxuriously, as if he were burying them in a bolt of fine silk. He seemed to like toying with his hair, whether because there was something particular about the feel he enjoyed or the fact it afforded him a tangible way of controlling him, Szayel didn't know.

"But that's such shit, you know? Such utter bullshit. Why sit and accept that fate? I'm not gonna fucking languish in that house, because even if I'm no one to my family, I'm still someone. I've got money. I've got power. And I can do whatever the hell I want. Even start my own house eventually."

Nnoitra pulled the hair he'd fisted around his hands taut as his tone became bitter, but his grip relaxed after a moment. He untangled one hand from Szayel's hair, letting it sweep down his chest, his thumb rubbing over one nipple almost thoughtfully. When he spoke again, his voice was back to the eerie calm of earlier.

"I've still got things to learn. I'm no idiot. I intend to take full advantage of the privileges my status offers me. But in the meantime… while I wait… I'm not gonna stand for being treated like a piece of trash by my eldest brother. No one's going to tell me what to do. That's my right. And that's where you come in."

Nnoitra's mouth found his collar, biting down, though not with enough strength to break the skin. His tongue flicked over the marked spot briefly, but his lips were soon brushing down his chest, nipping as he went. He rubbed their hips together, slipping a knee between his legs and wedging them apart. His breath feathered hot over his skin as his mouth paused its sensual progress to murmur the next part of his explanation.

"I wanted a scapegoat. Someone whose life I could play with, who I could control. Monopolize entirely and take my frustrations out on. But you turned out to be more interesting than I anticipated. A pretty young male prostitute, blindfolded and mute. You weren't some gutter bitch, but you were broken down. I was curious, of course. Especially after I realized you had the ability to escape if you really wanted to. But instead, you continued to let people use you."

His lips traveled back up his body again to his throat, and his tongue slid out to lick the skin there, teasing up his jaw to one earlobe, which he nipped at sharply. His tongue darted inside, and Szayel squirmed reflexively away to Nnoitra's amusement.

"I wondered how far I could push you, if it was possible to see what you were really like. It was apparent to me that you weren't some peasant. But as you opened up, grew more confident around me, it only made me want to tear you down again. You'd get insubordinate, forget your place briefly. Treat me like an equal. We're not, Shizuka. I pay for the right to make you mine. And I own you, all of you. Your thoughts, emotions, talents, body. So, I'm just exploring what's mine. Seeking a pastime, a diversion. What do I want from you? Everything. Everything you can give, until there's nothing more you can do for me."

He tugged the remainder of Szayel's clothes off before reaching for his own and stripping down. Naked, he hovered over him, gazing down into his amber eyes seriously.

"You haven't given up yet. If you had, you would have killed yourself the moment you woke up. But that isn't your right. You don't own yourself, as you pointed out. And I won't allow you to, not until I'm done with you. So live, Shizuka. Stop this pointless moping."

Nnoitra kissed him, spreading his legs and reaching between them. Szayel closed his eyes, feeling his body warm at the intimate contact, and he bit his lower lip to suppress a groan as Nnoitra slipped a long finger inside him. This was new; the other man had never done this with him before. A second joined the first promptly as Nnoitra crooked the tips, brushing his prostate. This time Szayel couldn't help the moan that escaped him as he shifted his hips up, but Nnoitra pulled his fingers back teasingly. Szayel opened his eyes to look up at him, craving the pleasurable sensation he was able to instill in him so effortlessly now. The grin he saw on Nnoitra's lips was obnoxious, and a faint frown crossed his face. Nnoitra's smile widened.

"I value what's mine, so long as it remains useful to me. And I've told you before, if you please me… I can make things very agreeable for you. You seemed to like that dog. If you want, I can let you see him again."

The… dog? It was still alive? Szayel's eyes widened._ He didn't kill it?_

Nnoitra's fingers entered him again, but quickly this time, jabbing his pleasure point unerringly. Szayel arched as the taller man set up a rhythm that quickly made his body melt, and by the time he replaced his long, callused digits with something more substantial, Szayel was barely conscious of the sudden change in girth. Only the increased friction registered- the pain he'd long grown used to -and the building pressure in his gut. And after they'd both come and collapsed, sweaty and spent, he had only a brief respite of a few minutes before Nnoitra's hands and mouth roved his body again, catching only the fragment of a husked sentence about a debt that required repaying.

* * *

**A/N:** I know I probably sound like I whine after every chapter, but I really didn't like this one. It was painful to write; I felt very little inspiration while writing it. The plotline felt rushed, dull, and generally unpleasant. It was pretty much a chapter of drudgery, nor did it turn out anything like it was supposed to. Plus, Nanowrimo rules say I'm not supposed to delete things and start over. Meh. But… here it is. May the next chapter be more to my liking. There are probably a few typos I missed because I really didn't spend much time reading over it.

Digno means dignified. I'll leave you to puzzle out why I named this chapter that way.

I have also realized while procrastinating on writing this chapter that the plot is going in a completely different direction than I had first envisioned. So the major changes I mentioned in the last A/N are actually even going to be postponed more chapters. (Woohoo…) But I like my new plot much better than the old one, which had a few plot holes. Which was actually why I did away with it. And none of you will care because you'll never know what would have happened anyhow.

Well, ta until next time. Read and review as always. You got Nnoitra's silly angst pot in this chapter I guess. Isn't he more obnoxious than ever? Just makes you want to smack him. (My I'm just in a cynical mood today, aren't I?)


	11. Entendimiento

Their father knew. For this, Yylfordt was content, or at least calmer than he had been. They weren't to be disowned or the three of them killed for their mother's deception. In fact, it so turned out that Lord Iwara viewed his marriage to Tsukiyo as something highly favorable, even if his sons' inheritance was a little dubious. But this was something he was willing to work with, and as the pair had grown up, he'd adopted a rather liberal view on his children of mixed blood, especially towards Yylfordt who more closely resembled him. Aside from him and his most trusted retainers, no one else knew of their Lady's true nature.

But the revelation still hurt at first, especially now that he understood why his mother's expectations were so high for him. They weren't for him as a person, but rather him as a young, near full-blooded member of a separate race whose members were few. Lady Tsukiyo had explained to them both that the blood of their kind was passed on unequally. Some degree of their supernatural inheritance would always show, even in the weakest of crosses, and this typically manifested as heightened physical beauty or an irresistible charisma. This was apparently the case with Yylfordt, who while turned out to heal faster than the average human, nevertheless came nowhere near Szayel's recovery abilities.

Szayel was a different story. Their mother did not know what fraction youkai he was, though she commented wryly it wasn't so much a ratio of youkai to human as human to youkai. He appeared to express her blood so strongly that if there was human in him, it was very little. The opposite of Yylfordt. And this was why she'd treated him differently. Why she'd tested him for magical talent. Because he was nearly a pure breed, and because he was male. There was a reason outside of love for his mother's union with his human father; males in the species were exceedingly rare. To keep the bloodlines going, their kind sought out mates and hoped for the birth of children who expressed their otherworldly heredity strongly. It was a game of strategy; the vast majority of the time, strong crosses did not occur, and even if a child was born with a high rate of expression, they were typically female. His case was a rare one.

It was fortunate then that their kind lived practically forever provided they weren't killed. They had time to wait, and mating outside the gene pool ensured they would not stagnate. But as Szayel read up on the books of lore his mother had given him, he felt crushed by what he knew to be the expectations of an entire race. A race he couldn't quite call youkai, though it was an appropriate term. He understood his mother's teasing remark now, and why she called their duty noble. Why he was indeed born to aid mankind, for that was the mandate placed upon them by the god who'd raised them from their existence as petty trickster demons and given them the choice to serve heaven as his emissaries.

A schism in their race had followed then; those that chose to cling to their malicious ways, and those that accepted the mantle of divinity and its ensuing responsibility. But both went by the same name and were generally treated with equal suspicion and trepidation. They were kitsune; his okaa-chan was indeed a fox.

Questions had of course followed upon this discovery. What did she really look like? What was the extent of her shapeshifting abilities?

"Don't be silly now, my heart. I have but two forms; human and fox. This one is as true as the other."

"Even if deception is a kitsune's nature?" he'd remarked dubiously, to which she'd laughed.

"That is the nature of our youkai brethren, and while it is true we work with illusions and trickery, it is never for malevolent purposes. We are zenko; good foxes."

He'd asked about his own appearance and Yylfordt's, if this was the way they'd been born and truly looked. That they didn't have some fox-like features that she was concealing with magic. She'd seemed amused.

"This is your true appearance, Szayel. Just because you are two natured does not make this one false. Although, my blood is so strong in you it may be possible for you to assume a vulpine form as well when you are older."

That possibility had floored him. If he could transform into a kitsune, was he really human at all? But he'd been born in human form. Had his mother? Was she born as a human or a fox? He voiced this last question tentatively, and Lady Tsukiyo had smiled and shaken her head at her son's quest to make sense of his new reality.

"Why don't I show you my other form, butterfly?"

And she did. Her body had shimmered as flesh rippled into fur and her pale, tapered hands became black furred paws. By the time the transformation was complete, a beautiful fox sat in front of him, swishing its elegant white-tipped tails lazily. She looked up at him, pink hair replaced with silver-gray fur, but her eyes were the same. A warm amber, still loving despite her animal appearance. He'd gone down on his knees then, reaching out to touch her, his fingers curling in her thick, long coat as he wrapped his arms around her neck and buried his face wonderingly in that soft fur. Because despite how wild she looked, despite how gorgeously feral and untamable, she was still his mother and he knew she wouldn't hurt him.

"You're so pretty, mama…" he murmured as his fingers stroked absently down her back. He watched her tails swish again, content, and she leaned her snout into the crook of his neck. She let him hug her for a minute longer, then transformed back to the shape he was familiar with.

"So I'm pretty as a fox, am I?" she asked him teasingly, "But not as a human?"

"You're always pretty," he assured her, and she smiled, squeezing him tightly once before letting him go.

"Any other questions on your mind?" she inquired, and he nodded.

"Why do you have only three tails? Aren't kitsune supposed to have nine?"

"I will, if I live long enough. We kitsune gain tails with age and power. Only the oldest and strongest are nine tailed. I am considered relatively young for our kind."

"So if I…?" Szayel began, not quite comfortable with finishing his inquiry, but his mother deduced the content of his unspoken question and nodded.

"If you could become kitsune, you would have just one, love."

He nodded in turn, absorbing this information, and she flashed him a tender smile of relief.

"I'm glad you don't hate me, Szayel. I'm so lucky to have a husband and children who accept me. It's not easy being a foxbride; many times, we're driven away by those who feel betrayed by our dual natures once they find out. Some seek to greedily capitalize on the good fortune we bring our chosen mates, or on our blood. It is why Inari gave us protection against those who would take it forcefully, for in the past we have died because of human avarice."

"You've never done anything to make me hate you. I'd be stupid to hate you now just for being something else. You're my okaa-chan. I'll always love you," he declared staunchly, and Lady Tsukiyo's eyes grew soft and misty as she picked him up, spinning around as she embraced him.

"Ah, my little kit. I'll always love you too. Just remember that, no matter what happens. Remember that."

He hugged her back, and for a moment they both stood there blissfully, but his mother soon frowned, set him down, and stretched her back as she looked down at him appraisingly.

"You aren't so little anymore, and I'm already carrying extra weight," she said with a rueful smile, patting her growing stomach. It was still only a small bulge, but noticeable nonetheless. Szayel reached over, stroking the distended skin through the cloth of her kimono curiously.

"Mama, if you're a fox how come you don't have multiple babies?"

Lady Tsukiyo's smile morphed into a glare, and he giggled at her dark look, backing away from the suddenly irate woman.

"Don't you even start on that, Szayel," she warned, unamused, and he gave her an apologetic look, composing his features so they appeared sincere and innocent.

"I'm sorry."

His mother snorted.

"Little liar. I am your mother. I'll teach you to make snarky remarks about me to my face."

He screeched as she proceeded to tickle him into submission and he begged for mercy, flailing and laughing and pleading breathlessly for her to stop. She did eventually, but not before he'd collapsed to the floor and was rolling around uselessly for a couple minutes wishing he could pass out and escape her playful revenge.

-.-.-.-.-.-

Was it sad that one night with Nnoitra could snap him out of his mood? That every time he was alone, his thoughts inevitably drifted back to the black haired man and the feeling of his hands on his body, dragging him up out of his apathetic wallowing and making him crave the heat he brought forth when he fucked him? Yes, he soon decided, it was sad. Very sad. And he was utterly ridiculous for behaving this way. But despite his cynical internal criticism, he still thought about him the whole week. Nnoitra would be smirking if he could somehow know, a fact that made Szayel grimace.

Of all the nights they'd spent together, the last one had been by far the most passionate. Nnoitra hadn't stopped at just one round; he'd taken him up on several, thus clearing the debt he'd claimed to have built up. And each had been different. Szayel had to wonder, as Nnoitra put him through his pacings, where he'd learned so much, or if he merely had a particularly twisted and inventive mind for this sort of thing. It was impossible not to dwell on this, not when he so rarely felt the same kind of energy with his other customers.

And then there was the matter of the information Nnoitra had unexpectedly divulged. Third son of a noble. Irrelevant. Disregarded. Szayel now understood his bitterness, why sometimes he seemed angry, why his moods were so erratic… and most of all, why he exercised such firm control over him, playing his rigged games and hurting him. Because if he could not have that control in his every day life, then he could at least lord it over someone who couldn't stand up to him. A juvenile way of coping, but a method nonetheless. He was his scapegoat after all.

_His._ Such an egocentric way of thinking. Nnoitra paid for him, but he did not belong to him. He only owned him for one night of each week, and even then he was only borrowed goods. But he wasn't about to point this out to the man, not yet anyways. Maybe if he really got unbearable he'd bring it up, the condescending bastard. Oh, that would surely piss him off, but it might be worth it to see his expression. Might. Szayel probably wouldn't push it that far unless he was feeling particularly masochistic.

But… for all that he hurt him, for all that he was an arrogant, violent brute… he could still be surprisingly thoughtful. He didn't know if this was genuine, or if it was just another level of deception. Though he claimed it was all just a way to amuse himself, picking out the details of his life, Szayel couldn't help but feel there was more to it. He'd said he wanted to see what he was like reconstructed, raised from this broken state of mind as a whore. Szayel believed that. He just wondered where his game stopped and real interest began, or if there was more to it at all. Whether on some level he considered him a person and not just a plaything. In the end, it was this train of thought that he acknowledged with the most reluctance. What did it matter what Nnoitra thought of him? Their positions were still the same; nothing had changed. Szayel was a prostitute, and Nnoitra was a client.

He was writing when Nnoitra arrived, working out calculations on paper. It had been several years since he'd done this, but as the stress of the day had worn down on his nerves, he'd been hit with the sudden urge. Several pages were filled with his neat, black strokes, the occasional note written in the margins that he might look back on them later and recall precisely what equation had corresponded to what problem. He doubted that he would look over them; they were more an exercise in meditation. It was a relaxing state, even if his mind worked feverishly to pick out the solutions, but an escape from the anxious worries of the present. Only when Nnoitra stopped in front of him to peer down at his calculations with a puzzled air did Szayel snap out of his trance-like state, blinking up at the taller man as his brushstrokes faltered. The numbers instantly fled from his mind as their eyes locked.

_Hello,_ he awkwardly penned.

"What the hell are you doing?" Nnoitra asked, bemused.

_Solving equations,_ Szayel replied, glancing down at his calculations self consciously now.

"Why?"

_It's relaxing._

"That sure as hell doesn't look relaxing. What are you solving?"

Szayel hesitated over his answer, lips twisting down slightly as he considered how to reply. After a long pause, he gave a small half shrug and proceeded to write; let Nnoitra think what he would.

_They are ratios. I used to do this when I was younger, to determine the proper dilution for reagents I was using in making medicine or to determine the proper dosage of non-custom pills. These I'm doing are based on a few of the girls here; I already know my own calculations by heart._

Nnoitra shot him a strange look as he looked over the equations, then shook his head, exasperated.

"Again, you find that relaxing?"

_Yes._

"Your idea of fun is bizarre."

_I do the things most people consider leisure activities for a living, so if I elect to engage in other pastimes to take my mind off these, I hardly think that is strange._

The other man looked at a loss for how to respond to this remark for a moment, then cracked a crooked grin.

"That's an interesting way of putting it. So what else do you do?"

Szayel frowned, eyes flickering down to the papers in his lap. Truth be told, there wasn't much he could do outside of activities cultivated by the House. If there were books to be read, he would read them. If he were allowed to maintain the gardens, he would, but the only flowers he was allowed to arrange were the ones already cut for ikebana. He occasionally made use of the skills he'd learned from his mother, and then only to a limited extent through massage when the other women complained of soreness or cramps.

_There isn't really much else I can do. I lack the resources._

"Like?"

Szayel looked up at him, mouth quirking up into a wry, wistful smile.

_The ability to dictate my own life. But I suppose you're asking about the material things, so money, books, medical supplies, room for my own garden… a home._

What he had before he came here. Before… no. There was no use thinking about that right now. Szayel shrugged. There was one other thing he didn't care to list; family.

"So instead you do math," Nnoitra remarked with a grimace, "How about I substitute something else for the resources you lack?"

Szayel shot him a questioning look, and Nnoitra reached over his shoulder to unsling the sack he carried. Carefully, he pulled out its cargo, revealing the puppy from two weeks before. It looked bigger now, and much less shabby, as if someone had given it a bath and a proper grooming.

"Said I could let you see him again. I didn't kill him; I was just fucking with you that day. I wanted to see if you'd beg me to spare its life," Nnoitra explained as he petted the dog, and it wiggled its tail happily, looking completely at ease.

Szayel stared disbelieving at the sight before him. Of Nnoitra stroking the puppy who was supposed to be dead. His fingers fumbled for the brush he'd set down, eyes never leaving the dog as he quickly wrote out a question.

_Why did you keep it alive?_

Nnoitra shrugged.

"Why not?"

_But going to the trouble of caring for it? You said you didn't want to._

"It's a dog. You feed it, give it a place to sleep, and let it out to shit. It practically takes care of itself."

Szayel looked at it longingly, shock shifting to melancholy as he remembered that night he'd first seen it. How small and scrawny it had looked, so helpless in Nnoitra's huge hands. How desperately he'd reacted to save it when Nnoitra had threatened to kill it. And here… it appeared the two got along well. It didn't seem at all nervous or wary around Nnoitra; it was obvious he didn't abuse the thing or even neglect it despite his irreverent attitude towards caring for it. Nnoitra watched his expression change and held the animal out to him, and he tentatively reached for it. Their hands brushed as the taller man passed it to him, and Szayel smoothed a hand over its fur, strokes growing more confident with each passing motion until he was smiling down at it while he scratched it behind the ears and the puppy licked his fingers and leaned into his touch, tail wagging wildly.

Nnoitra watched them play for a minute, then sat down, reaching out to give it an affectionate scratch.

"You know, he hardly barks. He'll whine sometimes when he's lonely, or yelp when he's startled, but he rarely barks. He's quiet, like you Shizuka," he remarked absently.

Shizuka… Szayel continued playing with the puppy, but some of his enthusiasm faded. His identity as a prostitute. It was there to safeguard his other identity, keep it unsullied by his work and special. Private. Something no one could take from him. But while it did its job admirably, it also drove the reality of his situation in cruelly. He was Shizuka. He was someone who could be marginalized and treated like an item. He had no voice, no past, no worth. He simply was.

"I was wondering what to name him, since he should have a proper name if I'm going to keep him around. What do you think?"

Names. So important, and yet so easily given. Parents gave their children names, owners gave their pets names. The House gave him his name without a second thought. Shizuka; the one who could not speak. And it was fitting. So fitting for him, but he didn't really want to be Shizuka. Not for the rest of his life. This silence was stifling. No one knew who he was except for him, and to some extent, Nnoitra. Bits and pieces, scattered over time. A strain of a lullaby here, the echo there of a house long ago fallen reflected in the silver of a knife…

"Shizuka"

_No._

He shook his head, taking up Nnoitra's hand, which idly stroked the puppy. His eyes looked up into Nnoitra's, searching. Wondering whether he should really be doing this, giving away one of the few things he actually owned. But what was the point of keeping it for himself? He'd die some day, and then there would be no one to remember him. No one to remember Szayel.

"What?"

_I'm not Shizuka. That's not my name, _he traced into his palm. He felt nervous, a giddy thrill at telling someone. There was a tenuous immortality in this act; even if Nnoitra stopped visiting, he wouldn't forget him. Perhaps he'd relegate his existence to a distant portion of his mind, but he wouldn't forget him entirely. He would be someone, not just one whore among many. Not just an ill-favored, wretched soul. He existed again.

_I'm… Szayel. Call me Szayel._

"Szayel?" Nnoitra voiced experimentally, and he nodded.

_Yes._

"Why tell me now? Why tell me at all?" he asked, and Szayel looked down at his hands; one buried in the puppy's fur, the other lying still and delicate in Nnoitra's calloused palm.

_I just wanted to hear someone say it,_ he traced.

And it was nice to hear it spoken again. Very nice. But nostalgic too. It brought back memories, both joyful and painful, and as they washed over him again, he was struck with a wave of yearning for the person whom he'd spent most of his childhood with. For all her nicknames and endearments… for the love in her eyes whenever she regarded him. He set the puppy aside, turning so he faced Nnoitra, and leaned into his shoulder as his arms wrapped around his torso in a tight embrace. Though his throat felt like it was closing up, he did not cry.

Nnoitra seemed momentarily stunned, for he did nothing as Szayel hugged him. Perhaps he wasn't used to such emotional displays, or he simply hadn't been expecting him to react this way. Szayel smiled internally at this thought; Nnoitra was always watching for his reactions. When he finally pulled away, he could see the question in Nnoitra's eye, along with the lingering shock. But he cut him off before he could voice more than a word of it.

"What-?"

_Thank you, Nnoitra. Thank you for keeping the puppy alive._

He seemed more confused than ever, for granted, it did seem a little random after confessing his true name to the man. But Szayel didn't leave him to puzzle out his thanks long, choosing instead to tilt his head invitingly and slip both hands under Nnoitra's clothes. As they brushed down his chest sensuously, the taller man's violet eye lit up, and he cracked a wicked grin. This he could understand.

Szayel felt himself promptly pulled into his lap and Nnoitra's hands tugging his clothes loose so that he could skim his own fingers over his body. They trailed across his skin hungrily, lingering over the places they'd picked out in the past to be his most sensitive spots. Not waiting for Nnoitra to decide where to begin, Szayel continued to pick Nnoitra's clothes open, hands growing bolder as they fell to his hakama and teased at the ties. The clincher was when he hooked his knees around Nnoitra's waist and drew their bodies close, rubbing up against him sinuously while his tongue flicked out to tease his lips. He felt Nnoitra's breath waver and his cock twitch between them, and a moment later he found himself on his back being pressed into the mattress as Nnoitra pinned him.

_Puppy,_ he mouthed, and with a muffled growl Nnoitra reached out for the animal and put it off the bed. Szayel cocked his hips as his client ground down against him, mouth finding and devouring his, their breath quickly growing ragged. Nnoitra's hands resumed their roving. Pinching and stroking; playing his body as he'd learned how. And Szayel moaned for him, sounds of pleasure escaping him as he arched at the delicious sensations. Even when he got rougher, their clothes discarded and Szayel's hair unbound. He didn't mind Nnoitra's forcefulness, the way he gripped his slender hips as his teeth grazed over his skin, leaving marks and welts that would fade long before his next visit. He somehow made the pain into a pleasurable experience, one that made his body quiver as Szayel curved under him pleadingly, hands skimming lightly down his spine.

"Such a slut…" Nnoitra breathed heatedly as he licked up one of his thighs, but he obliged his request eagerly, tossing his legs over his shoulders and positioning himself at his entrance. Szayel groaned as he thrust in, bucking his pelvis to take in more of him. Nnoitra withdrew, grunting as he sank in again, this time angling for his pleasure spot. Szayel cried out as he hit it, a sound that was to be repeated with increasing passion as they fell into a rhythm. By the time Szayel hit his release and milked a sympathetic response from Nnoitra, he was riding a euphoric high, one that did not dissipate as Nnoitra pulled out with a contented sound to rest for a moment. Szayel felt lethargic, wanting to bask in his afterglow, but he knew Nnoitra wasn't the type to drowse or linger long. When his partner stirred, Szayel sat up as well, and he found himself tugged into his arms as Nnoitra buried his face in his neck and inhaled, hands creeping forward to twist his nipples absentmindedly. They flared, stimulated by his attentions. Even having just had sex, Nnoitra was still aroused. This was something he'd found out about the man during his last visit; he had an impressive libido.

"Mmm… you know you're hot when you open up for me? Just makes me want to take you all over again," he remarked huskily. Szayel shivered at the promise in those words. He'd paid for the evening; he could do whatever he wished during that time. But a thought occurred to him now that hadn't while his mind had been fuzzy with sex; they had a voyeur. His lips quirked up in amusement, and he grabbed one of Nnoitra's roaming hands to comment on this observation.

_We've got a watcher. You're going to scar the dog._

Nnoitra gave a noncommittal grunt.

"The dog either puts up and keeps quiet, or he doesn't come," he mumbled into his neck. Szayel stilled as he read into these words, heart leaping.

_Meaning he would come again? _he asked with a flicker of hope. He felt Nnoitra grin against his skin behind him.

"Of course. You get all agreeable and responsive when I bring him. But he still needs a name."

Szayel gazed off into space thoughtfully, trying to think up a suitable name. Impatient and horny, Nnoitra took advantage of his distraction to nibble his earlobe while his free hand snuck down to circle his cock. Szayel's eyes fluttered closed and he let his head fall back against Nnoitra's shoulder as the other man applied pressure to the organ and it began to heat and stiffen under his touch. Quickly, before he lost his train of thought, he traced a name into Nnoitra's palm. The other man paused briefly in his molesting, lifting the hand to turn Szayel's face towards him so he could see the look of amusement there.

"Shizuka? Really?"

Szayel nodded, and Nnoitra laughed.

"I suppose it fits. Shizuka it is then."

His mouth soon returned to its pleasing activities, and Szayel felt his skin flush and warm again as Nnoitra's other hand joined in. Mere minutes later, the dog was forgotten for the second time that night.

* * *

**A/N:** I'm happy to report I actually liked this chapter. Short and sweet. ^^ Now watch me get a critique on it. xP

Entendimiento means understanding, or that's the context I use the word in here. It seemed to fit the chapter well enough. Now stick around for the rest of my review please. :3

So, you finally know what Lady Tsukiyo is, and consequentially what Szayel and Yylfordt are. Kitsune. While I have taken a few liberties with the mythology, (they do not have healing blood and kitsune can assume the shape of whomever they desire regardless of gender, so their human forms are not fixed) I've tried to keep much the rest of it true. These youkai have quite a history, dating back to ancient China and Korea before the legends were brought over to Japan and incorporated into the local Shinto religion there. They were connected especially to the god Inari, and the foxes that served him were known as zenko. These celestial foxes are seen as more benevolent towards humans than their mischievous or even malicious brethren.

I've really only touched on the beginnings of what I will incorporate in this story, but for those of you interested in kitsune lore and other youkai mythology, I recommend wikipedia's articles. They are very informative and in my opinion, very fun to read through. :3 Of course, as with most authors, I will be picking and choosing what aspects to incorporate in my story.

On the chapter itself, I like Szayel's interactions with his mom. I generally don't like writing fluff, but this was really cute to write. Nnoitra with present day Szayel was a little too nice in my opinion, but I guess he was trying to get into his good graces with the dog. He did a pretty good job of it too. Mm, yes… fluff chapter is fluffy. And now I steel myself to write more. x_x (My nemesis…)

Read and review as ever. November is quickly drawing to a close, and I hope to get out two more chapters before it ends. That gives me four days. Pity I won't make my 50k wordcount; maybe next year. See you in the next chapter.


	12. Epifanía

"So I hear the swords instructor has been giving you grief."

"Oh… yes, I suppose he has."

"Madarame isn't an easy man to work with, but you can tell him from me to stop drilling you so hard."

"Ah, why Asayegawa-sensei?"

"Because it means you show up to my sessions dirty and bruised and I simply cannot abide teaching diplomacy to someone in such a disgraceful state."

"He wouldn't care though. He'd probably laugh and make me work harder."

"Oh, he'd care. I'd make him care," Szayel's diplomacy teacher informed him primly, and looking the slender, beautiful man over, Szayel couldn't help but believe it. There was something about Yumichika that brooked no disrespect or nonsense. Despite his effeminate looks, no one gave him trouble. He'd heard the man came from a samurai family and could use a sword, but decided to abandon this lifestyle as it stood at odds with his aesthetic code. Szayel had decided early on that if he were to grow up to be like someone, he'd like to develop the same, cultured confidence Yumichika walked with. The diplomacy teacher had been flattered when he'd confessed this to him and looked upon his second student even more favorably.

"Not only are you beautiful, you are intelligent too. As long as you respect me, I think we'll get along well," he'd remarked to Szayel, and they had. Especially when it turned out that Szayel had a talent for negotiation. Asayegawa-sensei was now one of the handful of people he actually liked in his house, even if he had to put up with his gossip and complaining. For a diplomat, he was rather a hard man to get along with if one didn't meet his personal standards.

"Ugh, did you see what that visiting lord was wearing? Unbelievable! I mean really! Who _wears_ that shade of orange with that shade of green? There should be a law against that, don't you agree Szayel?" his teacher suddenly remarked, fine lips twisting down into an expression of disgust.

"Atrocious, Asayegawa-sensei. It should be burned," Szayel agreed, playing along. The garment had been garish, but probably not quite deserving of the vehemence his teacher regarded it with. Yumichika shook his head, really getting into his rant.

"And to think I actually had to greet him and shake hands with the man! I shouldn't have to touch such ugly people. I'm not getting paid enough for this work. If our neighbors won't go to the effort of investing in some proper presentation, I don't believe we should have to show them the courtesy we do."

"Mm… sensei, but we are a major economic pivot in the region. It's inevitable you have to deal with the other regional lords and a slew of visiting merchants and dignitaries. Why choose to work for our house?" Szayel asked, diverting the conversation so he wouldn't have to comment on Yumichika's rant. His teacher sighed, adopting a suffering look, propped his chin up on his palm.

"Well, I was drawn by that wealth and the fact your parents are generally known to treat their household fairly. If I had to work, then I figured I couldn't do worse."

"We're honored to have you here too, Asayegawa-sensei," Szayel said, and his teacher brightened, rising from his sullen mood.

"Oh you are just too much sometimes. If I didn't despise children, I'd want one just like you."

"Ah, thank you sensei?"

"Why is that a question?"

"Er, because I can't imagine you with children.'

"Are you implying I'm somehow bad with children?"

"No, no. Just that you're much too… refined to care for them."

"Hmph. That's right. Awful little things, all messy and noisy and smelly. Not cute at all."

Szayel breathed a quiet sigh of relief as he avoided upsetting his vain teacher. Yes, he liked the man, but working with him really could feel like dodging arrows; a side step avoiding one, and he found himself in the line of fire of two others. By the time he'd ended his lesson with Yumichika that day, his nerves were rattled. Interacting with him was as much an exercise in diplomacy as attending his classes. Thankfully, the rest of the day would be much more relaxed, for his next teacher was the calmest of the three and the person he liked best aside from his mother.

What he liked about his strategy instructor, aside from the content of his class, was his nonjudgmental attitude. The first day they'd met, with Szayel on edge from his other teachers, he'd had him sit down and take tea with him until he was no longer so stressed. Then he'd asked him about his beliefs; what things he valued most and what things were at odds with his personal moral code. Szayel had found it to be a very strange talk, yet oddly relaxing, and had opened up to the man. In him he recognized someone he could trust and cultivate a friendship with, for he never had to worry about being privately criticized for his appearance. Kaname Tousen was blind.

His origins were also somewhat of a mystery, for though he'd asked once, he hadn't received a straight answer. His looks were foreign, what with his dark skin and braided hair. His age was also unknown to him, for though he looked young, he walked with the solemn airs of someone far older and world weary. Whatever past had led him here, it was filled with sadness and regret. Occasionally, a wisp of bitterness would touch upon his teacher's face, but he managed for the most part to keep it out of his demeanor. The one thing Szayel knew for certain was that he hadn't always lacked the use of his eyes, and the loss of his sight was likely why he'd retired from warfare. He was able to visualize and describe for him formations in such vivid detail, Szayel could close his eyes and almost see them for himself.

Nor did Kaname's blindness seem to cripple him as much as he would have expected it to. He had an almost uncanny way of carrying himself; no hesitation in his movements whatsoever. When he mapped out scenarios on ink and paper, his brushstrokes were fluid and he never seemed to err in pointing out landmarks or positions or which direction his imaginary troops were to follow. But when Szayel would ask him about this, he would pause, looking off into some distant place, and eventually answer he had a good memory for things.

Today, his strategy teacher seemed more remote than usual. His greeting was quiet and reserved as Szayel walked in, taking a seat across from him cross-legged at their small, low set table. Their usual pot of tea sat on a folded cloth in the middle, spout gently steaming. It smelled like green tea with something else. Inhaling, he identified it to be lemongrass; a sharp herb from the southern islands that also made excellent tea by itself. Szayel offered his teacher a respectful greeting in turn and reached to pour them both cups of the tea. It was a ritual they engaged in every day, for Kaname firmly believed in clearing the mind and meditation before turning to matters of warfare. Balance was important for a warrior, and if the swordsman could not synchronize his mind, body, and spirit, then he was not a proper samurai at all. There had even been days when they'd done nothing more than practice calligraphy or arrange flowers, both activities Kaname told him were used to focus the mind. Szayel wasn't sure about the effectiveness of these activities, but he did not argue with his teacher. Sometimes it was nice to just unwind and indulge in a change of pace.

Setting Kaname's tea cup before him, he took up his own, breathing the steam that rose from the pale green liquid and letting his eyes flutter closed as the stress began to leave his body. It wasn't until he'd blown on the hot tea and taken a sip that Kaname spoke up again.

"Tell me Szayel, what do you want from life?" the dark skinned man asked him unexpectedly. Szayel opened his eyes, looking up at him over the rim of his tea cup. He wasn't sure why his teacher had asked him this or even what his answer would be, but it seemed to be connected to his slightly melancholy mood.

"I want to be someone people can be proud of," he finally replied hesitantly, getting the feeling that this wasn't quite what Kaname had in mind. As if to confirm this, the other man didn't speak up immediately. It was a long pause before his teacher spoke up again, and his tone seemed slightly disappointed.

"Is that all?" he asked, taking a sip of his tea. His white eyes stared out past him, but he could still feel his disapproval seeping out into the air around him. Szayel swallowed, trying to understand what it was he wanted to hear. What he'd said was true enough; Szayel wanted approval from the people that surrounded him because for most of his life, he'd only earned their disdain. Most of all, he sought his father's regard. He loved Tsukiyo, but his other parent remained as distant towards him as ever, and that hurt.

"What do you mean?" Szayel asked, feeling suddenly inadequate. Kaname was one of the people whose opinion really mattered to him, and he couldn't bear the thought of losing his regard.

"That desire will not serve you well. Once you have the respect and attention you crave, then what? Your focus is too external Szayel. Look inside and figure out what it is that _you_ want. Not what others want from you. If you neglect yourself, then you will never be happy."

"Sensei…" Szayel said, searching his teacher's face. The disappointment, he realized, was not directed at him, but rather something bigger than him. Kaname was in a reflective mood, lost somewhere in his own past. Perhaps his question channeled a lingering regret of his own? Kaname raised his cup again, taking another contemplative sip as he closed his blind eyes.

"Just remember that, Szayel. Find yourself before the day arrives when you realize everything you've lived for has been empty. There is no worse feeling than the epiphany that you are no one."

-.-.-.-.-.-

"You look happier," Torako observed one day as she watched him slice and crush the ginger root he'd acquired from the kitchen stores. He looked up at her questioningly, knife poised over a new segment, and she rolled her eyes at him.

"Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. You were a ghost two weeks past, Szayel. I had to drag you out of the baths because it seemed like you were going to commit suicide. And now you even smile to yourself sometimes when you think no one's looking."

Szayel's cheeks warmed slightly as Torako grinned at him, and he focused very intently on his task of mincing the remainder of the ginger. It was easier to grind up to a pulp in the mortar if the pieces were small to begin with. This only prompted her to grin more broadly and lean in conspiratorially.

"You know, you aren't the only one lost in the clouds. Have you seen Umeko? She's practically glowing nowadays. Hmm? I don't suppose you'd know anything about that?"

Szayel ignored her even more pointedly, and Torako laughed, moving out of his line of sight. A moment later, she made her presence known again as she came up behind him and draped her arms over his shoulders mischievously, murmuring her next words in his ear.

"It's known she loves her Kaito, but there's been some speculation about you too, Shizuka. She has been especially friendly towards you lately, hasn't she? A little more contact than is considered _casual. _Ne?"

Szayel paused in his work, turning his head to look into Torako's eyes. She gazed back, impish smile still present on her lips. Scowling slightly, he pushed her off, prompting a giggle from her as she returned to a more respectable distance.

"Come on Shizuka, we just want to know. Are you two sleeping together or what?"

With a prim, defensive look, Szayel gathered up his supplies and stood, shaking his head. Torako sighed, looking up at him morosely.

"Aww, come on. I'm teasing. Don't get so defensive 'zuka. You're no fun when it comes to gossip. We all know you're gay anyways, which is such a monumental waste by the way."

Raising an eyebrow at her comment, Szayel was treated to the sight of Torako pulling a face at him. A ridiculous display coming from her; she was an exceptionally endowed woman, and seeing her acting so childish was entertaining. He knew she didn't act this way with her customers, preferring to play up her mature appearance and feisty temperament. Szayel shook his head again, this time in amusement, and left her to her own devices as he took his supplies back to his room.

She wasn't the only one to have noticed and commented, though she'd been the boldest so far. But that was in her nature; nothing Torako did was subtle. It was true that Umeko had been much more familiar with him lately, though when he'd inquired at one point, she'd blushed and told him she was sorry if she was bothering him. He'd become more comfortable with it after a few days had passed and he realized it really was nothing more than an innocent infatuation that wouldn't progress much farther. Something fleeting and sweet; the passion she reserved for her Kaito, whom she was positively enamored of.

Privately, he wondered what they'd think if they knew the source of his recent good mood stemmed from a certain client. Especially given that he was known to be a tough customer. Umeko still gave him pitying looks occasionally when the end of the week approached, remembering her recent night with him. It made him feel almost a little guilty about looking forward to Nnoitra's visits, like there was something wrong with him for it. And maybe there was. Maybe he was developing a twisted version of Stockholm Syndrome, where instead of sympathizing with a captor, he'd become attached to the person who abused him.

Attached… he couldn't deny that. He felt nervous around Nnoitra, but also comfortable. He could undo him easily. The man knew more about him than anyone else, House girls included, and he'd revealed to him something he'd never revealed to anyone else in his life here. Szayel had told him his real name, offering up one of his most precious secrets willingly and spontaneously. At the time, he'd been lost in the moment, considering his own tenuous existence and mortality, but now… Looking back on that night, he was astounded by his own impulsiveness. Telling his name to someone like Nnoitra? What was he thinking?

But that was just it. He hadn't really been thinking. He'd been feeling more than anything else. And he could still recall that moment; the giddiness that had overcome him at the temerity of his confession. The doubt and melancholy preceding it at the thought that he would pass away one day, forgotten and worn out by years of being used, which had prompted him to tell. The only question really was how attached he'd become.

Well, he wasn't like Umeko. He wasn't hopelessly in love. Szayel wasn't stupid enough to fall hopelessly in love. And as long as he didn't set foot in that dangerous territory, he was fine. Meanwhile, he'd make the best of the situation he found himself in while it lasted, and hopefully Nnoitra wouldn't make these developing emotions his new pet project to exploit. He refused to become more of a victim than he already was. No. He'd just assist in his current level of victimization.

_I'm not assisting… I'm just making it easier for myself._

Completely legitimate, what he was doing with the ginger. Straining it through cloth and extracting the oil. Even… adding that small amount of it he managed to strain out to the safflower oil he'd acquired earlier was perfectly legitimate. Probably. Oh hell, who was he deluding? Himself, really. It was a humiliating, dirty little project he was indulging in because maybe, just maybe Nnoitra would take a liking to it and actually use it with him… But Nnoitra still enjoyed hurting him. Liked seeing his face when he was both aroused and in pain. The chances that he would approve this were slim.

Szayel sighed, resuming his project and concentrating on the process. Anything to stop himself from drifting back to those discomforting thoughts that seemed to plague him constantly. After a few hours, he had his finished product sitting in a pretty glass perfume jar he'd borrowed from one of the girls who'd emptied it earlier that week and had no more use for it. It looked clear and innocuous, but still feeling slightly ashamed at having it sitting out in the open, he stuck it in a drawer. And there it sat for the next couple days, almost forgotten.

-.-.-.-.-.-

No. Oh no no no no no _no_. This couldn't be happening. He couldn't be booked by someone else. Not now. Not today. There had to be some sort of clerical mistake, some error. Because no one should have been able to book him for this time slot. Preference was given to the regulars, and this was the time Nnoitra always came. And yet…

He'd been notified five minutes ago. Five minutes. And this new client would arrive at any time now. What kind of preparation time was that? Certainly, he was dressed and painted and ready on the surface, but inside he was having a psychological break down. And he'd still have to pretend to be fine.

Maybe… maybe Nnoitra would arrive. Find that they'd made an error and tell them off for it before this other client came. But the precise time of his arrival always varied. He wasn't a consistent man; sometimes he was there on the dot, other times he'd arrive half an hour late. Szayel just prayed it was the former rather than the latter. Blindfolded as ordered- Nnoitra was the exception to this condition –he paced the room, aware that he should be arranging himself on the bed demurely. But he couldn't. He just couldn't be professional in this instance; this was all wrong.

Szayel bit his lip as the door slid open with a firm _snick_, heart stuttering as he listened closely for the sounds the other person made. But they were too soft to be Nnoitra's; his heart fell. If it had been Nnoitra, he would have been pissed off after the news of the mix up. He would have spoken up immediately, maybe sworn, maybe strode over to him to rip off the blindfold and all that it represented; that he'd almost been sold for a night to some other customer. But no. It was too good to hope for that. Instead, he got a man that circled towards him idly, catlike almost in his movements from the sound of him. He had a commanding presence; different from Nnoitra's aura of restrained violence, but also with a dangerous element to him like Nnoitra.

"So you're the man they call Shizuka. The mute one. You aren't blind too are you?" the man's voice sounded as he slunk up behind him. Szayel thinned his lips, shaking his head. He could practically hear the smirk in the client's voice as he spoke up again.

"This seems unnecessary then."

Szayel startled as he felt fingers reach up to untie his blindfold, one hand coming up as if to keep it from being taken from him as it was removed. He looked back in surprise at the man who'd taken it away, finding himself staring into intensely blue eyes. Helplessly, he lowered his hand.

"You wanted this?" the man said, glancing down at the white cloth he now held. His eyes flickered back up to Szayel's as he raised an eyebrow, "I could put it to better use though."

Szayel didn't want to look at his face. Didn't want to meet his blue eyes or gaze upon his equally blue hair. Didn't want to give this man a face, but it seemed that wasn't going to be an option today. His eyes fell to the blindfold as he considered the other man's words with unease. _I could put it to better use._ Szayel swallowed. Taking in his look of apprehension, the man grinned and looped it around his neck like a leash, tugging him over to the bed.

"So, lets get started," he purred, bending him forward over the mattress. He stood behind him, body pressing up against his as one hand slid forward to dip under the fabric of his kimono and skim across his chest. The other undid his obi, and as the garment he wore loosened, he leaned in to lick up his exposed shoulder to his ear. His tongue darted inside teasingly for a moment before his mouth closed on the crook of his neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. Szayel groaned softly, protesting the pain while simultaneously feeling his body flare. With a soft growl, the man broke away, turning him slightly to claim his mouth in a forceful kiss.

The way he kissed, the way he held him… both were so reminiscent of how Nnoitra handled him. That same confidence, same surety in his advances that many of his other customers lacked was present in him, and the way he made love was rough. With just a kiss, Szayel could discern that about him, but then, he'd learned to judge personalities pretty well over the years. Here was someone he wasn't going to deny so easily. Feeling his spirits deflate slightly, he resigned himself to an evening with this man and returned his kiss, tongue darting into his mouth impishly. This was his job after all, and he wasn't going to half ass it. Not even for Nnoitra.

The blue haired man pulled away with another growl, panting slightly from the intensity of their kiss, and Szayel himself felt a little breathless and lightheaded. He had little time to think about air however, as his client promptly attacked his lips, nipping at them aggressively. Szayel felt his mouth grow tender, softening under his force as he pulled the lower petal into his mouth to suck before reclaiming it in its entirety. His tongue delved inside again, stealing Szayel's breath as he leaned him over the bed, one hand holding the back of his neck possessively, the other going down to his hip and lingering there for a moment before ducking under his thigh. He pulled it up and Szayel hooked his knee over his hip obligingly as the other man pulled his kimono open to expose his body to the dim light.

He broke their kiss a second time, breath coming in more raggedly now as he pushed him backward onto the bed with his weight. There was a brief respite as he looked down into Szayel's slightly flushed face, their eyes locking. Blue gazed into gold for a long moment, then the other man's eyes grew half lidded as he considered his prize. Reaching up, he pulled his arms over his head and looped the blindfold around them, tying his wrists together. Szayel tested his bond; tight. It wasn't something he was about to get out of, nor was it appropriate for him to even attempt to free himself. This man's kink was his to fulfill, and a moment later, it didn't matter. He forgot all about the tie as his client descended upon him again, teeth grazing over the skin of his collar before biting down hard, shrugging off his shirt while he molested his chest.

Here, perhaps, was someone as violent in his passions as Nnoitra. This client seemed to enjoy exacting pain, his favored tool his teeth. Bites and bruises turned marred his skin and turned it hot where the man inflicted damage, and always he returned to his mouth after a time, treating this with equal force. Szayel replied with soft whimpers and cries of pain as he shifted under him, his treatment still not brutal enough to make him scream. For though he was brusque, he didn't seem cruel in his acts. He enjoyed his pain, but he didn't go out of his way to see him writhing in agony. His client was a rough man, but not quite a sadist.

By the time the blue haired man dragged him back up to his feet and bent him forward over the bed, Szayel was moaning. His skin was fully flushed, nipples and groin aching with sensitivity and mind fuzzy with pleasure. His arms stretched out in front of him awkwardly, still bound together at the wrists, and as his client pressed against him from behind, one arm curling around his front and bare chest against his equally bare back, Szayel shivered from the heat between their skins. He felt his legs spread, the man rubbing up against his ass and the ensuing hardness that followed. Then, hot breath on his neck as the man clamped down again, one hand reaching down to the hakama he wore and loosening the ties so the garment puddle to the floor around his ankles. He stepped out of them, now fully naked as he melded their bodies more closely, rubbing against him again as sinuously as a cat. Szayel bit his lip, stifling an anticipatory groan.

And then there was the sound of the door sliding open forcefully as a familiar figure strode in angrily. He took one look at the two of them bent over the bed, poised to fuck, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. Anger changed to fury as his teeth pulled back in a silent snarl.

"Get the fuck out," Nnoitra ordered, glaring daggers at the blue haired man, who straightened slightly, letting go of Szayel's neck to scowl.

"What the hell? I'm busy," he shot back irritatedly.

Szayel only watched Nnoitra, feeling slightly numb as shame washed over him. That Nnoitra would see him in this state, brought to his figurative knees by someone else. Though his violet eye wasn't upon him- his attention was all for the man behind him –it was the only way he could convey what he was feeling.

"Go find another whore and another room. This one's taken," Nnoitra said in a dark tone that promised brutality if he didn't comply. There was a pause as his client tensed, then he let go of Szayel entirely, pulling on his hakama and tying them as he strode over to Nnoitra.

"No, you get the fuck out _Nnoitra_. As I so recall I paid for this bitch and he's mine for the evening. You can have'm when I'm through if you're so fucking desperate," he sneered.

There was a brief moment where nothing happened, then Nnoitra's muscles coiled and he sprang, throwing the other man against the wall and pinning him there by the throat. He hissed into his face, hand tightening mercilessly around his windpipe as he cut off his air.

"Who gave you permission to use my first name, _Grimmjow?_" Nnoitra spat, and when the man named Grimmjow fisted a hand to slug him, Nnoitra rammed his knee between his legs hard. Grimmjow crumpled, legs giving out as his eyes rolled up and he gasped in agony, and Nnoitra shifted his hold from his throat to his shoulder as he held him upright. With a sneer of his own, the black haired man began to pummel his victim bloody. It was only when Grimmjow regained some of his senses and struggled back that he threw him to the floor brusquely and kicked him in the ribs, drawing his sword.

"Like I said, get the fuck out," Nnoitra remarked, tilting his head. A savage grin stretched across his face as he considered the blue haired man, who rose painfully. He offered him a hostile look, eyes flickering over to his clothes. Following his eyes, Nnoitra bent and retrieved them, tossing them over to him disdainfully.

"You're going to pay for this," Grimmjow warned as he dressed, snarling, but Nnoitra's grin only widened.

"Yeah? And tell your family what? Ya got fucked up over a male prostitute?"

Grimmjow bared his teeth at the blackmail, chafing at his humiliation.

"You'll slip up. One day, you'll pay."

"And I'm lookin' forward to it little boy blue. Start a war with my house, and we'll obliterate yours," Nnoitra retorted. Grimmjow hissed at this, but didn't reply, limping out of the room and slamming the door closed moodily.

Silence fell upon the room as the source of Nnoitra's anger left, and an awkward tension now developed between them. After watching the door a moment longer, Nnoitra turned around, finally looking at him. Szayel had straightened up while the two fought, and he stood watching Nnoitra from the other side of the bed, bound hands hanging loosely. As the other man appraised him, he tensed warily, the shame returning again. He wasn't sure how Nnoitra would react now, for he seemed to have burned off some of his rage when he'd beaten up Grimmjow, but Szayel knew there was still plenty violence left in him if he so chose to go that route. Bowing his head, Szayel looked down at the mussed covers of his bed; he wasn't quite sure he wanted to see the expression on Nnoitra's face as he looked at him.

"Shit, this is the first time I walk in and see you marked up, and it isn't even by me," Nnoitra commented, breaking the silence as he crossed the room. Szayel closed his eyes, trying to read his tone. It was still angry, but it didn't seem to threaten injury. Not yet anyways.

"Look up, will you? I don't waste time on cowards, so drop the bitch act. You're not the one I'm pissed at."

Szayel looked up as Nnoitra reached him, turning him to examine him more closely. The taller man scowled as he took in his flushed appearance, his bruising body, and his swollen, abused lips. He ran a thumb over the latter, noting Szayel's slight wince as his tender mouth flared. His face darkened.

"This is just fucking great," he remarked cynically, anger flaring up again, "A piece of shit day followed by a ruined evening. You're already damaged by the time I arrive. Used by someone else. Wonderful."

Szayel sighed softly, sitting on the edge of the bed as Nnoitra fumed. There wasn't a thing he could do about the situation. It wasn't his call. That was Nnoitra's. And as Nnoitra watched him, his temper cooled a little, back down to embers. He could see the frustration simmering in his eyes, but it was temporarily under wraps again as he reached for his wrists and undid the knot. The blindfold fluttered to the ground and was kicked aside disparagingly as Nnoitra sat down, staring stonily at the wall.

"So then did you enjoy yourself? You looked pretty flushed when I walked in," he remarked, an edge of bitterness in his voice. Szayel glanced over at him, reaching tentatively for his hand after a moment. Nnoitra turned his palm up, willing to listen, though Szayel still had some reservations about his answer.

_This is my line of work, Nnoitra. It's not always pleasant, so I take pleasure where I can find it_, he traced, expecting Nnoitra to close up again at any moment. Instead, a sardonic smile quirked his lips.

"That's right. You're just a prostitute. Anyone can buy your passion."

Hurt stabbed through him at that comment, and he looked away. Nnoitra's words were cruelly blunt, but true. Anyone could pay for him.

_I didn't want to. But he paid and he came, so there was nothing I could do. Even if this was supposed to be your timeslot._

"Why are you sorry? Why should it matter who you sleep with?" Nnoitra asked sarcastically, and Szayel frowned, upset by his continued scornful mood. They'd talked this over before, why Szayel cared. Why Nnoitra was different to him. So why did he have to bring that up and scorn it? His feelings of guilt and shame abated as he grew frustrated with the other man.

_You already know. You already know why it matters, so let me ask you. Why does it matter to you? Why are you so bothered by this?_

Nnoitra's lip curled slightly as he turned Szayel's face, violet eye staring intensely into his gold as he replied.

"You think I care? You think I care about you specifically? No, I'm pissed because someone dared touch and dirty what's mine."

_What was his._ Szayel closed his eyes as these words sank in, feeling the hurt afflict him all over again. Of course that was it. He was stupid to think it might possibly be more than that. That somewhere, there might be the smallest shred of genuine regard for him. But this was Nnoitra after all.

He felt something in him break at the thought, and when he reopened his eyes, his gaze was cool. Not a calm cool, but something chilly. Frigid.

_Fine. I understand, so fine. But you're right, Nnoitra. I'm just a prostitute. Which means anyone can buy me. Anyone. Not just you._

He removed his hand from Nnoitra's, pushing away from him and standing abruptly. With equal detachment, he circled to the other side of the bed, going over to his dresser. From one drawer, he removed his pad of paper, ink, and brush, from another, the perfume bottle he'd filled earlier that week. He leaned against the desk, writing in large bold characters that Nnoitra would be able to read across the room, turning the paper so Nnoitra could read it when he finished while holding the bottle up for the other man to see.

_See this? I made it because whenever you take me, it hurts. It hurts terribly, but that's the reality of my trade. I'm only fortunate for my blood or else I would a wreck by now. Eight years, that's how long I've been here. Since I was a child, Nnoitra._

He held the page up for half a minute, then let it fall to the ground, writing out another sheet.

_I'm eighteen now. You can do the math. Charming, isn't it? And here you are, a relatively new development. Yet you've got the gall to say that you own me? You don't own me, Nnoitra. For a few hours each week I am lent to you, but you don't own me._

He held this sheet up for a briefer period of time, knowing it would incense the other man, and as he let it fall to scrawl out his last words, Nnoitra was indeed up and walking towards him.

_So I don't matter. You don't matter. And what I made doesn't matter. But I wish that it would. I wish-_

The paper was confiscated from him, and the brush shortly after. Nnoitra didn't even skim the page as he crumpled it and tossed it with the others. Szayel flattened himself against his desk, anticipating a slap or some other form of physical abuse, but instead Nnoitra picked up the perfume bottle, spinning it between his hands. He uncapped it, sniffing, and looked down at him.

"And this is?"

Szayel said nothing. He couldn't. Not with his paper taken from him and Nnoitra's hands occupied. So he settled for staring up at him semi defiantly, cold eyes watching his smoldering violet. Nnoitra dipped a finger into the fluid, rubbing it between his fingers. Comprehension flitted across his face as he registered the oily, frictionless feel, and he gave Szayel an appraising look. His lips curved up in a smirk.

"So I hurt you 'terribly?'"

The lubricant was shifted to one hand and the other proffered. Szayel reached forward warily, hand poised to retreat at any moment as he replied.

_You're better now, when you want to be. You know how to make me feel good. But the friction is painful. I'm always hurt, to varying degrees. Not that it matters. You enjoy hurting me._

"The friction bothers me sometimes too," the taller man commented idly, "And actually, you hide the pain pretty well most of the time."

_I've trained myself not to cry. Just when I can't stand it any longer._

"You were that young when you were orphaned?"

This one caught him a little by surprise. Because it almost sounded like he cared. But he wouldn't be fooled again. Not again.

_Yes. I've been here since the age of ten, and all that that entails._

"No wonder you're so broken."

Nnoitra's fingers closed around his wrist before he could withdraw his hand, effectively cutting off escape. Not that he could have escaped. The pins were plucked from his hair and Nnoitra's hand threaded through it, the loose strands cascading down to his lower back, and Szayel shot him a pained expression, which he ignored as his mouth found his ear and nipped at it lightly.

"To be honest, I came here today with the intention of hurting you. Like I said, it's been a piece of shit day, and I do enjoy seeing you in pain. But I got most of my aggression out when I beat up that blue haired bastard," he breathed huskily. In one fluid movement, Nnoitra slipped a hand under his knees and lifted him, carrying him across the room back to the bed.

"I'm jealous. His marks remain but the ones I leave will fade before the next time I see you. So what can I do about that?"

He laid him out across the bed, the perfume bottle with its ginger scented contents still in his one hand. Nnoitra leaned over him, hand smoothing down his chest and lingering over the tender spots where his skin still burned with injury.

"But you know, more than seeing you in agony I like seeing you writhing in pleasure beneath me. I like seeing you hot and flushed and filled with me, both body and mind. I love seeing you crave me. So maybe I don't own you… not physically. But that hardly matters."

Nnoitra's hand retreated, uncapping the bottle again teasingly.

"You wanted me to use this? Then tell me Szayel, who you belong to? Who you think about? Who you wish would…?"

Szayel's eyes widened slightly. He had read it before he'd crumpled the last page, so quickly he hadn't even noticed it. The prostitute's cheeks colored slightly as he looked away.

"I'm waiting," Nnoitra reminded him, dipping two fingers into the oily liquid. Szayel closed his eyes.

_No one_, he mouthed silently.

"Liar. You want me to care. You want me to value you."

_I don't! _Szayel mouthed, opening his eyes to glare up at him. But in his eyes a tracery of the disappointment he'd felt earlier was visible. Nnoitra smiled.

"Didn't I tell you before? I value what belongs to me."

_Stop…_

"Not until I hear it from your own lips. Only you can make it true."

_No…_

"Szayel."

God damn it. The sound of his name coming from his mouth; two syllables rolling off his tongue effortlessly were all it took to break down his resolve, and he gazed up at the man hunched over him, a despairing look in his eyes. Because there it was, really. He'd already entrusted his identity to this man. He already owned so much of him. And he knew it. He was just waiting on him to voice that common knowledge.

_Nnoitra,_ he conceded sadly, reluctantly, _You._

"That's right," Nnoitra agreed, satisfied as he coated his fingers thoroughly. He pressed these fingers to Szayel's lips, teasing, then replaced this pressure with his lips. Szayel tasted ginger and the lingering floral aroma of the bottle's former contents as Nnoitra's tongue licked his bottom lip, then delved into his mouth, feeling trapped as the other man kissed him sensually. After a moment, he was pulled into his lap with a growled order for Szayel to undress him. He did so blindly, hands deftly picking open his shirt, untying his sash with its weapons, loosening his hakama, and Nnoitra helped him by shrugging and kicking off his clothes. When Nnoitra broke away from their kiss, Szayel buried his face in the crook of his neck, groaning as Nnoitra's fingers entered him and opened him up, gliding in easier with the lubricant. His spare hand tangled in his hair, winding it around his fingers and bringing it up to his face, as he seemed to like doing.

He kept this up until Szayel was melting in his arms, and only then did he remove his fingers. Szayel whined at the loss, imploring him to continue, but Nnoitra only turned him around, pressing him stomach down into the mattress as he straddled his ass. Szayel heard the perfume bottle uncapped, felt some of the warm oil drip onto him as Nnoitra coated himself, then tightness as Nnoitra's hardened head pressed at his entrance. The bottle was recapped and tossed aside as Szayel went up onto his hands and knees and Nnoitra grasped his hips, thrusting forward smoothly.

Szayel melted all over again, breath escaping raggedly as Nnoitra took him, and it wasn't until they'd climaxed and Nnoitra lay on top of him, spent, that some of his sense returned to him. He stared down into the pillows, watching his fingers curl and uncurl in the sheets as Nnoitra's lips brushed over his neck idly, one hand pulling away the curtain of his pink hair to better reach his skin. But in spite of the contented glow that filled him, troubling thoughts filtered down to his consciousness, and these dimmed some of his contentment.

What he'd written on that last piece of paper, the one Nnoitra had crumpled and that it turned out he'd read anyways… those words had been penned in haste. He'd hardly had time to think about them, and so they'd been more unconscious than planned. Instinctive rather than determined. What moved him then had been necessity; the need to get them written, to convey to him his thoughts before his words were taken from him again and he was rendered truly mute. But now, post hoc, he remembered what he'd written, and it bothered him.

_ I don't matter. You don't matter. And what I made doesn't matter. But I wish that it would. I wish-_

He wished what?

But the thought had been interrupted. The words had been interrupted and now he didn't know. They were lost to the moment and would remain so, except he suspected he did understand after all. Truth lay on the fringes of his consciousness, a dark little seed of a thought he didn't want to acknowledge. It wouldn't germinate until Nnoitra left, just bide its time in the gloom until Szayel was alone again, then lay down insidious roots once the doubts began to creep in again.

And whether for good or ill, it was about to receive its germination period.

* * *

**A/N:** Waa, first up I apologize to all my readers. This chapter was supposed to be out at the end of November as my last update for Nanowrimo, but college finals attacked and instead you are getting this in January.

But look at the bright side; this is the longest chapter I have written for this story to date, and you have Xylexia to thank for giving me an idea that helped me move from the boring transition part to the interesting stuff. Grimmjow was originally supposed to play a bigger role in this story, but his plot arc got nixed when I decided to change directions with the plot. So instead, he gets a cameo appearance here. Grimm may or may not reappear. I like to keep my options open. But yes, from the rude familiarity with which they address each other, Nnoitra and Grimmjow do indeed know/of each other.

Epifanía is, well, epiphany. A sudden revelation or enlightenment that in its original context was spiritual but now takes on a more casual meaning.

Ah… skipping back to the beginning. I threw in Yumi and Ikakku because I decided to make Szayel's teachers canon characters. Tousen sort of seems random as the third, but Zaraki isn't exactly strategy instructor material and I like Tousen. I'd like him better in canon if he weren't such an obsessive nut at the end, but oh well. Kubo destroyed a lot of characters.

Yes. If you hadn't done the math yourselves from the summary description in Mariposa, Szayel is eighteen and has been here for eight years. Which means he's been here since he was ten. Which means that yes, there are things implied that make me cringe too, but I'm not going to go into that.

As for Nnoitra… well, I'm not quite sure what to say about him. Nnoitra is Nnoitra. And yes, he fights dirty. You wonder why he's the black sheep of his family? (I'm still sort of trying to keep him IC since I've started to make him OOC too. ;^; Good god I'm terrible at writing romance. It is my nemesis. I also still feel ashamed whenever I write semi detailed smut. *Former prude* I imagine I will look back on the fanfiction I have written in ten years and think, what the hell woman? This is what you spent your late teen years writing? But I digress. Don't comment on this little rant. T_T)

So, read and review if you enjoyed the chapter. :3 Reviews make me want to update faster (and milk more reviews, hur hur. I'm a greedy person.) You know I never quite understood the read part of read and review at the end of a chapter? Arguably, the person has already read it? *Quibbles over pointless things* Tangents aside, see you in the next update. ^^


	13. Inquietud

One moment she was busy guiding him through an appendectomy on the mannequin, the next she was doubled over in pain, clutching her mouth and looking very ill as the illusion faded. As he looked over to Lady Tsukiyo in alarm, Szayel found himself wondering what it was that afflicted her. She'd seemed a little pale this evening, but now she looked terribly sick. He watched his mother stumble for the door, features twisted as a sweat broke out on her brow, and he promptly tore after her to open the door and help her outside. She staggered a few more steps away from the building and retched, slightly distended stomach heaving.

Tsukiyo clutched his hand as she threw up, the bouts becoming more sporadic and brief as time passed. Finally, she was done. His mother straightened, looking shaky and drawn, and he assisted her back into their practice room. As soon as she was seated, he fetched her a damp cloth to wipe her mouth with, then stood before her, anxiously waiting for an explanation. She offered him a wan smile.

"I suppose you're curious about what just happened. Don't worry, my love. I am well. Nausea is common in the first trimester of pregnancy. That is all this is."

Nausea. He could have thought of that instead of panicking and wondering what illness she could have possibly contracted or what poisoning she suffered from. God, sometimes he felt so stupid and shortsighted that he didn't believe he should go into the medical field at all. What if he killed someone with his mistakes? Above all else, he was terrified that he'd kill someone… or wouldn't have the capability to save them.

Lady Tsukiyo seemed to glean his self-deprecating train of thought from his expression, for she motioned him to approach.

"Szayel, how many times do I have to say this? You are still learning, so don't tear your self-esteem to pieces over little mistakes. The truth is, no one is perfect. Not even the gods."

He drifted over to her, sighing and wrapping his arms around her lightly as he let his forehead rest against her shoulder. She held him this way for some time until they'd both calmed down, then pulled back to look at him with a light grin.

"Are you up to learning a new skill, Szayel?" she asked, and he perked up somewhat.

"Very well. I'm going to teach you… the art of massage. I think today, we'll start with feet."

"Massage?"

"Oh yes. It's very beneficial. Helps promote good circulation and eases stress and soreness."

He gave her a dubious look. She, in reply, waggled her foot.

"I think you're taking advantage of me," he said as he bent down to remove her shoe, and she sighed with pleasure. Her expression turned dreamy as her foot was bared.

"Oh no, not at all. I'm teaching you a beneficial skill for the future that will improve your marital satisfaction."

"Mari- …what? What does marriage have to do with this?"

"Nothing," Lady Tsukiyo replied, then at his expression, laughed and ruffled his hair fondly. "I love your father, but I do wish he'd do this for me sometimes. Especially when I'm carrying his whelp."

Szayel frowned up at her.

"I'm one of his 'whelps,'" he remarked, not quite sure whether to take offense at the term or not.

"Oh Szayel, you're too serious, butterfly. I mean it as the most loving of terms of course."

"When has 'whelp' ever been a loving term?" he asked, still dubious, and she rolled her eyes theatrically.

"Since now, whelp."

Well, there was no arguing with her. Slightly disgruntled, he settled down and let his fingers curl around her foot, just holding it for a moment.

"So… how should I start?"

"Ideally, you'd use lotion or oil to reduce friction, but since you may not always have access to that, just focus on the techniques. Make sure your hands are warm before you start; it feels better. Then start by stroking up along the arch of the underside of the foot. After that… I think I'll let you experiment. It's an intuitive thing, really."

"Intuitive..."

"Don't worry Szayel; you'll know what to do. Massage requires confidence, and that's something you build through practice. The only thing you shouldn't do is press down too hard on bony areas."

"Yes, mother."

"Good."

She closed her eyes as she relaxed, and he hesitantly began, letting his thumbs slide from the heel of her foot up her toes. But Tsukiyo was right, he soon discovered. Massage really was intuitive, and as he began to develop a feel for it with her occasional suggestion for improvement, he fell into a state of relaxed alertness, similar to the one he entered while studying or doing calculations. By the end of the session, he was feeling considerably happier. Tsukiyo suggested none too subtly that he try massaging her calves too. She had mild edema, which she said cropped up every now and then, but which would appear most consistently during the third trimester.

"So how are your other classes going?" his mother suddenly asked, and he startled, not expecting her to speak. He'd been drifting off.

"Oh, ah… Asayegawa-sensei failed me today because I wasn't thinking when I told him his new kimono was ugly."

"Oh my…" she said, trying to look concerned but failing as her face cracked into a smile and she began to laugh, "You… you told Asayegawa-san his kimono is ugly?"

"Well it is," Szayel replied with conviction, his own lips quirking up since his mother didn't seem disappointed that he'd insulted a teacher.

"From a diplomatic standpoint, that was rather crass of you, dear… but just between you and me, I completely agree with you," she said. "Now, how are Madarame-san and Kaname-san's classes?"

"Madarame-sensei is still yelling at me, but today he said I could probably win against a diseased old man in a fight, so I guess I'm improving."

"Haha, sounds like you're starting to grow on him."

"Surprisingly."

"So what of Kaname?" She continued to press him for details like one of the gossip mongering maids, but Szayel hesitated to answer this one.

"Mm, Kaname-sensei… he's… I'm doing well in his class."

"I'm glad to hear, Szayel. But if you're having any trouble with him, you know you can tell me."

She hadn't missed his hesitation. He'd hoped she would, but knew better than to expect her not to comment on it.

Szayel finished massaging Tsukiyo's calves, then sat back on his heels and looked up at her.

"There's no trouble at all, mother."

"Are you sure?" Lady Tsukiyo met his eyes.

"Positive. I've just been doing a lot of thinking lately."

He was glad when she left it at that.

Nnoitra wasn't here.

He had no explanation for why he would be absent, but it was an hour past his usual arrival time, and he wasn't here yet. … He shouldn't be concerned. Nnoitra didn't always come on time, and it was conceivable that he was just running late… but one hour became two, and two became four, and Szayel finally had to accept the fact he wouldn't be coming tonight.

It was a strange feeling, knowing that for the first time in months, he was completely alone and would be for the rest of the night. He'd gotten used to the man's rough companionship. Grown to expect it even. And as he sat in the dimly lit murk of his room, that feeling of solitude was compounded by his absence.

Szayel didn't want to stay there any longer. Grabbing his sheaf of papers and ink, the prostitute left his room, padding down the dark halls. Sounds of passion could be heard drifting from the occupied rooms he passed, but he'd long grown used to them. They hardly made an impression on him now.

He made his way out to the House garden and sat down on the veranda steps that overlooked the landscaping. The moon was waning; not quite full, but still bright enough to lend him the illumination he needed. As he dipped his brush in the pot of ink he'd brought, a murmur of wind ruffled his pages.

He shivered, hunching over them. The night was cool. Usually, he had the heat of another body warming him at this hour. Szayel frowned. No… he didn't want to think about him. Nnoitra had his own life. Maybe he was occupied with something? From the sound of it, his family was well established. Surely that was why he hadn't come. Not that Nnoitra had tired of him-

That. That was a dangerous thought. Szayel promptly shut it out of mind, brush gliding over paper as he forced himself to concentrate on his calculations. But they weren't as distracting or calming tonight like they usually were. He couldn't lose himself in the math. So he threw himself into it. His brush flew over the pages, writing out a sprawl of equations and numbers. They formed a black web on the paper, interconnected and yet mysterious. If he were to look at them twice, he might not have understood what he'd just written. So feverish was he as he wrote them, they ceased to register in his mind. He was entirely mechanical, achieving that state of blankness he so desired.

Szayel didn't realize he'd stopped until he was suddenly _back_… and he wasn't alone. He sensed someone behind him, watching. Heart thrumming in his chest, he turned.

The prostitute didn't know who he'd been expecting, but it wasn't the man he saw. He didn't even recognize him, though it seemed that whatever business he'd come for, he'd already conducted it. Szayel caught the scent of perfume on his clothes, and his hair looked a bit tousled, but most telling of all was the smudge of makeup still present on his cheek.

He was… different. Instead of a sword at his hip, he had a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder and a bow strapped to his back. An archer, bespectacled, with blue eyes, pale skin, and coal black hair. His features were unusually refined. The way he carried himself was equally distinguished. And he was also young. One of the girls had gotten lucky tonight. They didn't all come so nice.

At this thought, he realized he was staring. Turning back to his papers, he saw that several had scattered in the wind and now fluttered around the garden like white ghosts. Distraught, he rose and set aside his ink and brush and untouched stack of papers to chase after them. The Mistress would berate him later otherwise. It wasn't until he looked up from his hunt to see where the other pages had gone that he realized the silent archer hadn't left yet. On the contrary, he was still present, gathering up the other papers Szayel had missed. When there were no more to be recovered, he straightened, looking down at the pages he held.

Szayel just stood there with his own handful of papers, not quite sure what to do. It felt strange to have another person leafing through his work with an analytical eye. When Nnoitra had done it, it had been brief. Passing curiosity, and nothing more. This… it felt like he was being inspected, judged, and it made him uncomfortable. But he didn't know what was worse; having his equations scrutinized so closely, or the moment when the archer looked up from the pages to meet his eyes. After a moment of locking gazes, the other man finally spoke.

"You wrote these?"

Szayel nodded. The stranger looked thoughtful, glancing down at them again before he walked over to hand them back to him.

"That's impressive. Did they teach you here?"

A shake of his head in reply to that question. The other man frowned.

"Can't you speak?"

Szayel shook his head again, and understanding sparked in the man's eyes.

"I see," he said, giving him a shrewd, assessing look, "You must be Shizuka then. Yes… I can see that you're male now. The paint does a good job, but your face and form are a little too angular."

Szayel wasn't quite sure how to respond to that, so he nodded stiffly, inclining his head in respect before returning to the veranda to sit. The archer followed him over, sitting close by.

"I'm curious," he confessed after another moment, "How is it that you came to be sitting here in the moonlight writing advanced equations I can hardly make sense myself? And with such ease, too."

Szayel glanced over at him. He seemed fairly harmless, and it was welcome to have some company. Picking up a fresh piece of paper and his brush, he wrote out a reply.

_I learned before I was brought here. I was taught at a very young age, so it comes to me easily now. As for why I am sitting out in the cold, my usual client failed to show, and I did not feel like staying in my room._

"Not everyone is privileged enough to learn. I can't say I've heard of many whores with a talent for mathematics."

_I was once privileged, but fortune is a fickle mistress. I am just one more soul to have fallen out of her favor._

"What a shame. It's a terrible waste of talent."

_And you? You know how to solve them?_

"I do," the archer said, "I was also taught, for my father is a man of medicine, and he hoped that I would take up his trade."

Szayel tensed, surprised. But the way he spoke…

_And you… you did not?_

"No. I wanted to find my own way. And I did not agree with some of his… beliefs. So stubbornly, I took up the vagrant's lifestyle. In hindsight, I probably should have just listened to him and settled down, but what's done is done, and it wasn't all bad."

Ah… So he didn't know after all… but then, neither did Szayel, not really. Two years of lessons, that was all he'd gotten. Perhaps he could talk to this man? Find a kindred soul of sorts?

_Did you enjoy any of it?_

"Some. I guess. I don't know. That's part of the reason why I left. I just didn't know. I was starting to resent the work I was being taught. And that's when I thought, would I want to trust my life to someone who hates what he does? Would you?"

He didn't understand, then. Not really. He was still in an exploratory stage. It was a stage Szayel had never been given the option to have. His life had been set out from birth.

_I hated it at times, when I was first learning. But it also filled me with a sense of accomplishment as I progressed and assimilated the knowledge I was given. I envy you. You still possess the opportunity, and yet you throw it away._

"No. I'm not throwing it away. It has been harder, so much harder these past few years living on my own. But I've learned more about myself than I would have if I'd stayed. I am glad for the experience," the archer replied at length, each word delivered carefully and thoughtfully. His eyes were clear as he looked at Szayel, and again, the prostitute found himself under scrutiny. "So," the man asked, "What about you? You said you hated it at times, which leads me to assume that you were also forced to learn. Is it really what you would have wanted to do with your life if you'd had the opportunity? Did you ever once pause to think about it?"

_You could not understand. My circumstances were and still are very different from yours._

"Do you really believe that? Or are you just being defensive, penning the first good excuse that springs to mind?" the other man asked, looking across at him with a disdainful air. Szayel narrowed his eyes at him, not liking his implications. With a haughty flick of his wrist, he wrote a reply.

_You criticize me for my beliefs when it is you who has disrespected your own father, who is your superior in both age and wisdom. That you second-guess your own decision is evidence that you acted in folly. How then do you consider yourself fit to judge me?_

"Yes, individuality isn't particularly prized as an attribute in this country, is it? Obedience is. I wouldn't be surprised if I returned to find that my father has disowned me. I must seem terribly strange to you, who has never once questioned his path. But I can claim to be content with the decisions I have made. Can you?"

He smiled at him, completely self-assured, and Szayel was left with the distinct impression that he was being pitied. This did not sit well with him. The last thing he wanted was anyone's pity or condescension. He opened his mouth to voice a reply, though he shut it as soon as he remembered he couldn't speak. This disoriented him slightly. He should be accustomed by now to his disability. This person irritated him. The reason why he irritated him also irritated him. Because he made him doubt himself. Because he made him feel inadequate somehow. The archer's smirk only widened as he sensed this quiet anger rise in him.

"Good. Now you're thinking," was all he said.

_I was always thinking,_Szayel retorted.

"No, you were acting. Now you're thinking."

_You have no idea. You know next to nothing about me._

"I know my words mean something to you if they're getting to you like this. So tell me, if you're so self-assured, what do you want? What do _you_want from life, Shizuka?"

Szayel stilled, suddenly stricken by an eerie sense of déjà vu. He'd heard these words before, in the distant past.

_You… remind me of someone I once knew and respected,_he wrote at length.

"Once knew?" the man questioned.

_Dead now, doubtlessly. A teacher of mine. He once asked me the same thing._

"And how did you reply?"

_Thoughtlessly._

It hurt somehow to write that single word. To prove this stranger right. There were the vestiges of his pride again, flaring stubbornly, but if he were to be truthful with himself, this was the only answer he could have given.

"Well," said the man pragmatically, "Here's your second chance. Here's your opportunity to answer his question thoughtfully."

Szayel didn't write for several minutes. He just sat there, thinking. And thinking. And thinking. For the entirety of his life, he'd been living for others. At the time, he'd accepted it. He'd accepted it all, with few questions. Because he was young. Because it had made his mother happy, and her happiness was his. She'd loved him, there was no doubt of that, but now that he was older, he could see more clearly… He'd been manipulated. In his naiveté, she'd been manipulating him. She'd taken advantage of his feelings of solitude and low self esteem to mold him into what she wanted him to be.

Szayel wasn't sure what to think, what to feel. He still loved her, but there was now a feeling of hollowness that ached in his chest. What had she wanted that made her so sad? What was it about being kitsune that cast a shadow over her heart? Because she too had been forced into servitude by her heritage? Because she longed for freedom as well, but was tied down by destiny and the expectations of her elders to bear a dying race viable children? He was her gem, her butterfly, her little kit, the reason for her existence. That knowledge… it must have been bitter. But she'd loved him. She'd loved him, hadn't she?

Hadn't… she? So then… why… why was _he_ here? Why not Yylfordt? Why was he the one who had to suffer? Why was he _always_the one who had to suffer?

_Why?_

He'd wrote the word before he even realized he'd set brush to paper, and with a trace of resentment, proceeded to answer the man's question.

_I don't know. I don't know what I want. Just… freedom I guess. I don't want to be here. I don't want to belong to this House. I don't want to be used anymore, or mocked, or looked down on. I want out of this._

"And what's keeping you here?"

_I was sold to this House. I'm not here paying off a debt; I am owned._

"That is a bit complicated then," the archer conceded with a nod, "But do you know if they pursue escapees?"

_That is something I am unsure of. Many of the girls employed here have nothing else to turn to. They would probably fall back on prostitution even if they got out._

"But you have other skills. You could probably make it. Unless there's something else keeping you here?" he asked, eyeing Szayel calculatingly. Szayel met his gaze for a long moment, then looked away. There was… maybe one reason.

Was he really a reason? Or just an excuse? It was an enormous step to consider, leaving the House. He'd done so in the past, but never actually acted on these thoughts. Where would he go? What would he do? The prospect of freedom was exhilarating… and terrifying.

_Just one, _he replied, and set his brush down. He was done speaking. Sitting up straight, he pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them for warmth as he stared up at the night sky.

"I hope it's a worthwhile reason," his companion commented before falling silent as well.

They sat together for some time, watching the moon travel across the sky. It was a strange feeling of ease that filled him for the moment. He knew the anxiety and agitation would be back after his strange visitor had gone, but right now, he would enjoy this rare moment of calm. When the archer finally shifted after a while, he knew the moment was drawing to a close. Acknowledging this as well, the man spoke up.

"To be honest, I'm not quite sure why I came here. I thought it might satisfy a certain restlessness I've been having lately. It… didn't really."

Letting go of his knees, Szayel reached for a piece of paper and his brush to reply.

_Perhaps you misdiagnosed the reason for your restlessness?_

"Perhaps."

Szayel watched him, considering. It was true. He would run away in time, just not yet. There was something incomplete he needed to see through to the end first. Then he'd reconsider the idea. Bending over his page, he wrote out one final sentence.

_So… let's try something a little different then._

He gathered up his papers, his ink bottle and his brush and stowed them under one of the veranda steps out of sight. He placed a few stones on top to keep them from blowing away again, then, with a mischievous smile, he took the archer's hand in his and stood. His eyes beckoned him to follow.

No, he might not be running away just yet, but he could flout authority in his own quiet way. Szayel never had sex because he wanted to. Reclaiming some of that control over his sexuality- even if it was only this once –was a heady feeling.

The man seemed to understand where he was headed with this suggestion, and he raised an eyebrow at him. But he didn't balk or protest in disgust as Szayel led him away into the interior of the garden where they would be hidden from prying eyes. He just followed, silent. This was, after all, something forbidden.

He never did get an answer either, if this had satisfied the man's nameless desire. Not even after they'd lain together, flushed and drowsy under the night sky, and he'd written out his name for him in the dirt; Uryuu. Szayel had tentatively scratched out his own name in turn, a solemn offering before he brushed both out of existence with a sweep of his hand.

The only evidence that would remain of their time together were his memories, for soon after the wandering archer left, Szayel burned their conversations and scattered the crumbling ashes to the wind.

-.-.-.-.-.-

His anxiety soon returned, as predicted. The week progressed at a snail's pace, visitors coming and leaving and existing only as faint blurs in his mind. They weren't distinct like Nnoitra or Uryuu. They were as faceless to him as he was to them. It was hard…. so hard to wait for the week to draw to a close.

And then the day arrived. He was filled with restless energy, high strung and even- according to Torako –neurotic.

"Calm the hell down, Shizuka," the curvaceous woman drawled as she smacked him on the rump in passing. He plucked out her hair ornaments in reply, then left before she could get vindictive.

But she had a point. He forced himself to calm down, and by the time Nnoitra was due to arrive, he'd managed to compose himself. A plethora of questions hovered on his tongue- voiceless though he was. His fingers itched to bring them to life.

Ultimately, they were destined to founder with his hope as minutes again turned to hours, and Nnoitra failed to show for a second consecutive week.

Szayel did not leave his room this time. The prostitute curled up on his bed instead, mind awhirl with questions and concerns. He'd expected Nnoitra to be here. No, needed Nnoitra to be here. Why wasn't he? He had no way of knowing what was happening with him. Surely he wouldn't just… tire of him and stop coming? He'd smirk. Let him know that he was bored. He wouldn't miss the opportunity to see his _reaction._

Yes… that was what he wanted after all. His reactions. His expressions and emotions and thoughts. All of him. He didn't have all of him yet… or…. wait.

Wait. Szayel paled. Maybe he had? Maybe he'd ultimately gotten what he wanted with his last visit? Szayel's acknowledgement of his ownership- that Nnoitra owned the one part of him no one else did.

And what was that precisely? Did it constitute enough for him to have lost his worth to the other man? _I value what is mine,_ Nnoitra had said. He'd said it. After all that, would he simply throw him away?

Oh gods, he was overthinking this. Reading too much into this absence. It was normal for him to be gone… it was perfectly normal. No reason to… to…

_What do you want? What do I want?_

He slid off his bed, legs trembling slightly. Down the hall, he could hear Umeko singing to her Kaitou. Something about that sound made the situation all that much worse. Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes and tried to shut it out. He concentrated on the feel of his toes digging into the plush rug underfoot. Anything but her singing.

_What do I wish?_

Math wouldn't help tonight. He knew that instinctively. But he had something else that would. It was still in his drawer, extracted to ease the pain of the very woman whose voice now haunted him. This time, it would take his own troubled thoughts away. Pulling the poppy serum from its hiding place, Szayel dosed himself with the fluid.

His mother would be so ashamed. Tsukiyo would be so ashamed of him for abusing his knowledge. Hell… as he left his room, drifting down the halls like a lost spirit, he was ashamed of himself. But the shame wasn't enough to stop him.

It wasn't a strong dose. Just enough to ease him into slumber, which was out of reach otherwise. And he wouldn't do it again. Just tonight. Just this once, to take the edge off… this. Everything. All of it. He was being so ridiculous. So deplorably pathetic. It was true; he was a broken man. He knew that. He just hadn't thought it possible that he could break down any further. But it seemed he hadn't quite reached the bottom of his endless stream of misfortunes just yet. Reaching the storage room, Szayel leaned in the doorway for a moment before he proceeded onwards to fetch his favorite koto from the closet.

The wood was smooth and mildly soothing in his hands as he sat with it. Szayel closed his eyes, just feeling the strings and the make of the instrument before he drew a note from it. It morphed into a melody as he began to relax and focus on the music he was making. The drug was working on him, slowing him down and making him drowsy. Even, perhaps… a little good. It was good not to have to think. Nnoitra was right.

He laughed a little at this memory. Oh how worked up he'd been that night. Nnoitra always got him so worked up. But that was part of the reason he liked seeing him he supposed. Nnoitra made him feel almost alive again…

It hurt to be with him. It was painful. He was always doing and saying things that cut deep, through all the layers he'd built up over the years. _Nnoitra_ made him think. How ironic. He'd tell him that next time, that he couldn't stop thinking around him, though it would require a next time. Hah… and who knew if that would happen.

He didn't know when he drifted off. He was told when they found him sprawled on the floor next to the koto that he'd looked dead.

-.-.-.-.-.-

What had happened with the opiate was unacceptable. He didn't repeat his mistake a second time. The devious substance remained untouched in its stoppered bottle. He'd been questioned about his incident, but no one could prove anything, so he'd been left alone. The only one who had an idea about what had transpired was Umeko, and she'd kept silent. She didn't want to see him get in trouble.

He behaved himself after that. He still felt slightly ill at the idea that he might never see Nnoitra again, but these feelings were tempered by cynicism. It was plain that he'd grown to rely on Nnoitra for a semblance of regularity, and this was unwise. He could not afford to rely on others any longer. The one constant he could control was himself, so he'd start from there. If he lacked control over himself, how could he hope to direct his own life?

Passivity brought him nothing. It was time to take a more active hand in his life. He went over the skills he'd been taught when he had the opportunity, giving all his spare time to chart anatomy and practice techniques on himself. He went through and made an inventory of every useful plant had access to in the garden, and experimented with these and dilutions of his own blood to create medicines. He even took to practicing swordsmanship in his room, pretending the knife Nnoitra had given him was a more threatening katana. As much as he'd resented the lessons from his youth, they were a useful skill to have.

By the time Nnoitra's day of arrival was due, he'd managed to achieve an almost peaceful state of mind. To be sure, he couldn't banish all his nerves, but he was far calmer than he'd ever been while waiting for Nnoitra, except perhaps those first two times when he hadn't known whom he was waiting for. It was still a few hours early. He wouldn't be here til later, but Szayel was doing well- all things considered. If he came today, he could face him properly. If he didn't, he wouldn't despair. In fact, if he didn't show the next week either, Szayel was prepared to sever all ties with this place and leave.

It was an exhilarating idea. He felt like he was starting to recover from the last eight years, and the only way to lay that injury to rest was to leave it all behind so it wouldn't keep reopening. When the time came, he knew it would be hard. He had no illusions that he could walk out of the House without hesitation. It had become such an integral part of his life, but this was something he had to do. The House owned him physically. Nnoitra owned him psychologically. Szayel wanted to reclaim himself from both.

But fortune once again conspired against him. A notification was delivered to him as he quizzed himself in his room that he'd been booked by a client. He regarded this incident with some consternation. It was only a couple hours before Nnoitra's usual arrival time, and depending on the customer he got, it might leave him with little time to prepare himself adequately. But Szayel had done this before in the past. There was really no reason to worry, and customers didn't usually take more than an hour.

The prostitute swept his study materials up and concealed them in a dresser drawer, then tied the customary blindfold over his eyes and went to sit on his bed. A few minutes later, his client entered and stalked over to him. The blindfold was jerked down, and Szayel was faced with someone he'd hoped to never encounter again.

Grimmjow's teeth flashed as he gave him a playful shove.

"Evening, Shizuka."

Szayel felt his stomach twist as he swayed with the man's push. Though he knew it was his duty to treat each of his clients the same, he couldn't bring himself to smile coyly for this one. Instead, he met his eyes with a cool expression.

Grimmjow's grin widened.

"I was hoping you'd show some resistance. I'm not here for a willing whore tonight."

Szayel dodged the first punch Grimmjow aimed at him, but his clothes were so restrictive, his bid for escape did nothing more than anger the man. Tripped up by his kimono, he was quickly caught. Grimmjow hauled him back by his hair, cocked a fist, and hit him squarely in the face.

The hand wrapped in his hair kept him from sprawling backwards. Szayel jerked in his hold, hands flying up to assess the damage. Grimmjow swiped them away impatiently, then pulled his hands back and struck Szayel again. He didn't stop until the prostitute hung limply in his hands, in too much paint to mount any sort of resistance.

Grimmjow examined his handiwork as he licked blood off his knuckles. He knew some of it was his own from the way they stang, but it hardly mattered to him. The whore had taken the worst of the beating, his pretty face disfigured by vivid bruising and blood. He'd felt bone splinter with his last punch. Nnoitra wouldn't find this one worth visiting anymore. He wasn't worth more than dog meat now.

Grimmjow let him drop, watching him curl in on himself. He wasn't about to question why the prostitute could whimper but not scream. It was convenient for his purposes, and not worth further consideration. Yet as he brought down the pack slung over his shoulder and pulled out a length of rope, he found himself wondering about a different oddity.

The bleeding had stopped. While the whore's face still looked like a slab of raw meat, it had begun to knit itself back together. His skin looked less destroyed than it had a minute ago. Grimmjow watched him recover, regarding the event with incredulity. Eyes narrowing, he reached over and dug his nails into the man's skin, leaving shallow crescent shaped lacerations. They oozed for a few seconds, then began to scab over.

It wasn't his imagination.

"Freak." The word hissed out through his teeth as his interest was sparked, "So this is why he likes you."

Not because the prostitute was pretty, but because he could play with him as hard as he wanted, and the man couldn't prove that he'd been hurt or say a word about it. Literally. Grimmjow laughed.

"Fuck, if you weren't valuable to him, I might even take you for myself."

He rolled Szayel over and proceeded to strip him. When the whore offered resistance, he quelled it viciously with an elbow to his gut and the threat of broken bones. Szayel earned himself several new bruises and lacerations by the time Grimmjow had his wrists bound above his head to the bed posts.

The rope cut into his wrists as Szayel was blindfolded again. The cloth stuck to his ruined skin; it would rip the scabs open again once it was taken off. He'd stopped whimpering since it only earned him a slap or worse, and now remained silent even as Grimmjow scratched something into his chest with a knife. Szayel twitched as the blade came dangerously close to a nipple. Grimmjow stopped. A moment later, he felt the man flick it mockingly.

"S'pose I should claim what I paid for, huh?"

On top of this all… he still had one more indignity waiting. Szayel prayed as he listened to Grimmjow undress that Nnoitra wouldn't show up. He didn't want to be seen in such a deplorable state, trussed like an animal and riddled with bruises and healing scabs.

Grimmjow was no less rough when it came to sex. He had Szayel on his knees, wrists twisted awkwardly and ass in the air as he pounded into him. He matched Nnoitra for his brutality. Surpassed him even, in this instance. This wasn't about pleasure, but domination, and he reinforced this notion repeatedly throughout. Szayel felt him sink teeth into his flesh, leaving marks for Nnoitra to find. And he wasn't content with just raping him. Grimmjow worked him relentlessly until he felt himself giving. By the time the man finished inside of him, cum wasn't the only fluid trickling down his thighs. Szayel had orgasmed as well, though only at Grimmjow's discretion. Adding insult to injury, Grimmjow wiped his hand on Szayel's chest when he was done, then ripped off the blindfold.

Szayel didn't protest when Grimmjow rolled him over onto his back. His breath shuddered out of him weakly as he stared up the other man. His vision, blurry from the swelling around his eyes, saw only a vague blue smear of color. Any reaction might provoke him again, but it seemed a lack of reactions did the same. Grimmjow wrapped a hand around his throat and applied pressure as he leaned in to taunt him.

"What kind of bullshit whore am I paying for? One little session and you're comatose."

Grimmjow shook him, and Szayel feared he might actually snap his neck. That was one injury his blood wouldn't save him from. But his hands were bound. Useless. Szayel shifted under him.

This little action seemed to mollify him temporarily.

"Good... you're not out of this yet. Don't think I'm done."

… but it seemed he'd exchanged one torment for another. His pulse fluttered as he felt one of his legs drawn painfully taut and a cord wrapped around his ankle. His other leg was similarly bound to the bedposts. Grimmjow allowed him a moment to fully appreciate his situation, then tied the blood crusted blindfold over his eyes again. He felt the man shift, as if he were standing up.

A moment later, all the breath wooshed out of his lungs as Grimmjow drove his heel into Szayel's chest. Pain spiked through him, molten hot and all consuming. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. He could only register Grimmjow's heel as it came down again, hitting and grinding into his body.

Something broke. Several somethings broke. Maybe all of him was breaking, he didn't know. His head was spinning, and he couldn't latch on to one coherent train of thought. For a moment, his vision dissolved into blackness and the pain receded, but he was wrenched back into consciousness by the same agony that had brought on the faint. How long this went on for, he didn't know.

Then finally, the blows ceased. He flickered between darkness and wakefulness as words slithered in one ear and out the other, whispering cruelties he couldn't quite decipher. At some point, he'd started breathing again, but every breath was like knives, and he couldn't seem to get enough. He sucked in short, shallow breaths, the need for air overpowering his aversion to the pain it brought, but he was still overcome by dizziness. His lungs still couldn't take in enough.

He didn't notice when Grimmjow left. He was completely consumed by the act of surviving. Somehow, he managed not to suffocate from the liquid that built up in his lungs, or choke on the fluids he coughed up. The pain gradually eased a fraction, but it was just a small dip in his suffering. His blood couldn't rescue him completely from such a dire state, though it was probably the only reason he hadn't yet died.

Time stretched on forever. Seconds became minutes. Minutes became millennia. Reality blurred. Szayel found himself reliving memories in a feverish delirium. At one point, he even felt his mother's hands on his face. They were cool… pleasant against his hot skin. She was calling his name… she sounded concerned…

"…Shizuka! Shizuka, oh please…"

Not… his name. A different name. A different person's…

"That bastard! That fucking son of a cunt! Shizuka, can you hear me?"

Oh… that was right. Shizuka was also his name...

The blindfold was pulled off, and he heard a sharp intake of breath as the woman saw his face. Szayel blinked, trying to clear his vision. The swelling had only gone down a little, but he was gradually able to focus on the face above his.

Umeko… what was she doing here? Didn't she have to attend to Kaitou today? And she was saying the filthiest words… that wasn't like her at all…

"Can you hear me?" she repeated, seeing that he appeared less disoriented now. He nodded. The simple movement made him cringe as a fresh wave of pain rippled through him.

"The Mistress will never let him back here once she hears of this. He will never come back here! I don't fucking care if he's the son of a noble house. Even the Mistress will find this unacceptable."

She fumbled with the restraints around his wrists, but she seemed too angry to concentrate. The knots kept eluding her. Szayel watched frustrated tears spring to her eyes as she gave up and stepped away.

"I'll go find a knife to cut you loose. Just don't die while I'm gone. You'd better not die, do you hear me Shizuka?"

Umeko turned to leave when the door suddenly slid open. The woman froze at the sight of the new arrival. She wasn't the only one.

Szayel's heart stalled. He felt sick. He wanted to pass out. The last thing he wanted was to be awake for this confrontation.

The puppy was with him. The animal had grown since the last time Szayel had seen him, and now walked obediently at his master's side. Szayel was certain that animals weren't allowed in the House. Nnoitra must have bribed them to let the dog in.

Nnoitra only ever brought Shizuka so Szayel could see him.

…Nnoitra... If he had a voice, he'd tell him to leave. Beg him, really. There was no telling Nnoitra to do anything. Some part of him had hoped he'd show, but there was another part that had hoped he'd forgotten. Or that he no longer cared enough to come. It wasn't healthy how much Szayel looked forward to his visits. It was derailing everything. His plans to regain his independence, his plans to rebuild himself…

…it wasn't healthy how much his presence affected him now, far more than he could have predicted.

"Get out, sir. He can't see you right now."

Umeko's hands were balled into fists. She looked so small standing up to him, shaking like a leaf in the wind with anger and fear. It seemed she held rancor towards him for the beating he'd given the both of them, even if she'd requested it. But they both knew she couldn't do a thing. Her display was backed by nothing more than bitterness.

Nnoitra didn't pay her any attention. His eyes were fixed on Szayel's. But Umeko didn't give up.

"You need to leave. Shizuka was badly injured. He must be treated, or he could die!" Umeko tried to push him out of the room, only to stumble backwards with a squeak as the dog growled at her. Nnoitra finally broke eye contact with Szayel to glance down dismissively at the petite girl.

"Ain't shit you can do for him, woman. What I want to know is _who_ did this to him."

Nnoitra moved then, shoving past Umeko to approach him. Umeko trailed behind him at first, looking lost and helpless, but her gaze soon hardened, and she whirled around to leave. Presumably, she'd gone to inform the Mistress about what had happened. That left him alone with Nnoitra, who now stood at his bedside. Szayel closed his eyes as the lanky man leaned in to examine him.

"Che… so it was him." Nnoitra trailed a finger over the cuts Grimmjow had made on his chest.

So Grimmjow had left some sort of signature on him… Szayel didn't want to see what sort of expression Nnoitra was making, but he had a feeling he wouldn't be scowling overtly. Not yet. He was in one of his dangerous moods; equally liable to lash out impulsively, or take a step back and plan something nasty. Or… that was what experience had taught him. Seconds ticked by with no further word from him, which wasn't typical… He usually had something to say. But Nnoitra was silent this time. Though Szayel's eyes were still closed, he could feel his gaze on him, never once wavering.

When he finally spoke again, Szayel did look up at him.

"You gonna die?"

It was such a strange question to ask. Who asked the victim whether they were going to die or not? That was reserved for the medical practitioner. But of anyone here, he was the only one capable of judging his own condition. Nnoitra knew that.

_I don't know,_ he mouthed.

Nnoitra appeared to process his words for a moment.

"Can your blood fix this?" he asked.

Szayel looked up at him helplessly. He didn't know. He'd never tested his blood's healing abilities to this extent. He had no clue what kind of a recovery he would make, assuming he lived.

Nnoitra saw this doubt. He gave him one last, lingering look, then turned and left. The sound the door made as it closed behind him was one he'd never forget. It wasn't very loud. Under different circumstances, it was even ordinary. But for Szayel, it sounded with a dreadful finality.

In that moment, he realized that he had no idea if he would ever see him again. And this realization led to another. One that he finally acknowledged… one which terrified him.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Hello dear readers. First off, let me apologize for such a long break between now and the last update I posted on New Years. However, the good news is that you'll probably get several updates this month, since I am once again doing NaNoWriMo.

The title of this chapter is Inquietud. You have the great, wide internet and your choice of search engine at your disposal to look up the meaning. Have at it. I am too lazy to translate this time.

Now, I usually (read: always) post some long rambly explanation of the chapter, but not this time. Woe. You'll have to carry on as you always have, not reading these end of chapter notes. (Nah nah, I know some of you do) Also absent is my obligatory "bitch bitch whine moan" rant. I like some of this, and I dislike other parts of this chapter. But in the end, my opinion doesn't count because I'm not reading my own story. Except for the times when I reread sections to make sure I'm not committing any gross plot holes. But those don't count.

I will only say this: I regret that the torture wasn't more graphic.

Review if it pleases you. I'll have the next chapter up sometime this month.

Ta, kiddies. (And adults. Yes yes. I know you exist too. Gotta be** PC** ya know)


	14. Recuperación

"And how have you been dealing with the knowledge that you will have a new brother or sister soon?"

"I'm looking forward to it, sensei."

"Is that so? How is Lady Tsukiyo coping?"

"She's not as nauseous anymore."

Blue-gray smoke curled from a brazier at the back of the room where a stick of incense was burning. Its sweet scent permeated the air and made him feel drowsy. Still, he resolutely advanced his piece and gave Kaname the coordinates for it so Kaname could visualize his piece on the board and consider how to react to it. Kaname smiled.

"Interesting move. But don't think that just because I'm blind, I can't see what you're doing."

"Was I really so obvious?" Szayel asked. He thought he'd been doing a good job this time in disguising his strategy.

"No. You're doing well. It's just that I'm used to people trying to take advantage of my disability, so I can recognize an attempt quite easily. You've been trying to throw off my mental coordinates in order to disguise the real threat to me."

"Then you'd better deal with that threat," the boy said. He kept his tone neutral, disguising how he really felt. Kaname seemed to have an uncanny ability to read emotion from the slightest of variations in tone, so Szayel had gotten good at hiding emotion. Between him and Asayegawa, Szayel was shaping up to be quite the actor.

"No."

No? Szayel's eyes narrowed.

"I don't understand, sensei."

"Yes, you do."

Damn. So he'd seen through that strategy too… Still, he wouldn't confirm it for him. That was something he'd learned from Kaname; his teacher had successfully mined information from him in the past by pretending he already knew it.

"Then make your move, sensei."

He did. Szayel exhaled. There was no fooling Kaname, evidently. He hadn't been bluffing.

"You've gotten good at Shogi, Szayel. But I have been playing this game for many more years than you have," Kaname said. It was poor consolation. Szayel wanted to win.

He would win.

"I see you're developing conviction."

The words came out of nowhere, and Szayel froze in the middle of considering his next move. An electric current shivered through him as he looked up at his teacher, and he wondered not for the first time just how he seemed to know these things. His perception was far too accurate to be guesswork, but there was no way he could humanly know.

"Sensei…"

"Yes, Szayel?"

He bit his lower lip lightly, not sure how to ask. How did one ask someone if they weren't human? But again, Kaname discerned what it was that he wanted to say before he said it.

"You're wondering if I am a Youkai. I am not."

"Then how? How are you reading my mind?"

"I cannot read minds, Szayel. But I do have a gift that most people don't. I am sensitive to spiritual energy."

"Spiritual energy?"

"I'm surprised your mother hasn't taught you about that yet, though you are still a bit young to be learning magic."

Magic. Kaname knew his mother was magic. Which meant that he knew that she was a Youkai, and that he-

"There is no need to become agitated. I've known what Lady Tsukiyo is from the moment I met her. I know that you've inherited her blood more strongly than your brother. And I mean you no harm. You are my student."

Szayel forced his nerves to settle, though he was sore pressed to stand and flee. He was used to the idea that people killed Youkai, and if anyone found out, they would kill him for being one. But he knew Kaname. He wasn't impulsive, and he was his teacher. Szayel trusted him. Besides, he knew things that Szayel didn't, and he wanted to learn about them.

"What is this spiritual energy then? And why are you sensitive to it?"

"Spiritual energy is present in everything we know, living and non-living. It is one of the great forces that move this world. But most beings aren't aware of it. Animals have some limited sense of it, humans included, but for the most part, we are cut off. Youkai are the exception to this. They are filled with it. It is why a fox can become a Kitsune, or an ordinary cat a Bakeneko. Spiritual energy is what makes them Youkai. Spiritual energy is also what gives them the ability to use magic.

In my case, I was awakened to it when I lost the use of my eyes. My other senses became keener, including my sensitivity to spiritual energy. Once I became aware of it, I continued to explore this sixth sense and develop it. Now, I am even capable of seeing it in my mind's eye. My world is mostly lit up by faint glows. In the case of living beings, the colors change depending on emotions. More powerful sources of spiritual energy glow brighter, like fire or a waterfall or a human with a great deal of presence. You and your mother glow brightest of all."

"So you can see." That was how he seemed to know his way around so well. If everything had spiritual energy, then everything was potentially visible.

"Yes and no. The low grade sources of spiritual energy tend to blend together and form an obscuring haze in my mind, nor can I distinguish details. I don't know what you look like, Szayel."

He'd never judged him on appearance then. But… he had judged him on his emotional state. No matter how good Szayel had gotten at hiding that, Kaname had seen through him. He couldn't hide his spiritual energy… or, maybe he could. He'd have to ask his mother later.

But no wonder Kaname seemed disappointed with him when he'd answered his question about what he wanted. Szayel had been thinking it over. Each time he came to class, he expected Kaname to ask him again, but he never did. It created anxiety within him that he did his best to hide, and usually by the end of the class, he'd forgotten all about it, until the next lesson, at least. It appeared now that Kaname knew about that too, but had chosen not to address it.

He was waiting for Szayel to come up with the answer on his own time.

"So…" Szayel finally stirred and picked up his piece. He was still in the middle of a Shogi match. "Will I learn to see spiritual energy too?"

"Not like I do. You will be able to sense it and manipulate it as if it were something tangible, but unless you lost your sight, it's unlikely that you'd be able to see it."

"What if I blindfolded myself?"

Kaname went silent. Szayel moved his piece and quietly gave him the coordinates. The man didn't speak up again until after he'd responded to Szayel's move.

"If you were willing to blind yourself for a year, it is conceivable that you would begin to see the lights like I do."

A year. He would begin to see them after a year. He wondered how many years it had taken Kaname to reach the point he was at now. But unlike Kaname, Szayel would still be able to see. All he'd have to do was take the blindfold off.

"I'm sorry, sensei. That was insensitive."

"You wouldn't be able to beat me at Shogi even if you learned how to see spiritual energy," Kaname replied.

Szayel stared at his teacher, watching his lips curl up into a rare smile. After a moment, he smiled back.

"Then I'll beat you without that advantage."

-.-.-.-.-.-

He survived. That was the best way to think of it, really. Survival. He felt tired and lifeless, even if day in day out the House girls who were off duty came in to coddle him and bring him things to eat. Umeko came in to sing for him once, though she stopped when he started crying and just sat by him the rest of the time. She insisted on visiting as often as she could. It was her way of returning the favor she said she owed him. He was glad for her company, but at the same time, he wanted to be left alone.

Everything ached. His face and chest hurt the most, since they had taken the worst of the beating, but his body felt like one, giant bruise. Though he hadn't really been conscious for it, the man had also broken his right femur as a parting token. It was now bound firmly to a flat board, and it made moving very painful. For most of the time, he remained in bed, half propped up against pillows.

It was difficult to consider what would happen to him now. The Mistress had thankfully not thrown him out. After she'd seen his wounds miraculously healing, she'd decided to hold onto him for a bit. Perhaps she knew what he was, perhaps not. But she was interested enough to keep him instead of tossing him onto the streets to die by the roadside. She made sure he was cleaned and bandaged, that all his wounds were hidden from view, and that only a select few were privy to the extent of his damages. She didn't want the other girls to know about his regenerative abilities. It would complicate things.

He didn't know if he'd make a complete recovery, but his body was dealing with the trauma much better than he'd expected. Somehow, the ribs that had pierced one of his lungs were no longer lodged there. They'd migrated back to their original position. He didn't know how they'd done this. He was only grateful that they were repairing themselves, because the Mistress wasn't going to pay for a doctor to come and work on him. His fractured cheekbone appeared to be doing the same, so there was a good chance he wouldn't be permanently disfigured. As long as he still looked beautiful when he was finished healing, people would buy his time.

But he didn't want to stay here. He hadn't told anyone yet of his plans to leave, but as soon as he was able to walk again, Szayel would leave the House. There was nothing for him here. He couldn't risk that someone would realize what he was. It pained him to lie here in bed, completely vulnerable. If someone wanted to kill him, they could do so without even trying. The main reason that had kept him here had walked out the door. He had nothing to look forward to now, just the embrace of strange men whose faces he'd never see.

He wished he could forget him. He knew he wouldn't. Szayel catnapped during the day, drifting in and out of sleep, but at night, his thoughts invariably turned to Nnoitra. He contemplated what he'd tell him if he ever had the chance to see him again, but any words he could craft seemed silly. Nnoitra would just laugh at such a confession. So he'd start over again and try to come up with something dignified, as befitted the son of a formerly noble house. He wasn't some lowborn peasant. Though he was currently a whore, he wouldn't always be.

Yes, that idea appealed to him greatly. Perhaps he'd seek out Nnoitra when he was free of this place and had time to rebuild himself. When he was capable of standing strong again as himself, he would find him. Though, perhaps that wasn't a very wise idea. Nnoitra considered him a possession, or had. He wouldn't recognize his autonomy. He might end up trading one form of servitude for another. Szayel… would have to consider it. But first, he had to get out of here.

-.-.-.-.-.-

By the end of the week, he'd decided that it wasn't completely unpleasant being cooped up in bed. Even if the air of the House oppressed him, it was nice not to have to worry about pleasing someone. Everyone doted on him for a change. His spirits steadily rose, except for the times he was allowed to be alone with his thoughts for too long, and the times he needed assistance with personal hygiene. Having a plan calmed him. He hated living with uncertainty and feeling like his life was subject to the vicissitudes of fortune.

Szayel amused himself during the day with a variety of activities. He practiced instruments he wasn't as familiar with, engaged in verse competitions with the more lyrically inclined girls, and when he was alone, painted designs of inventions he imagined. The sheaf of papers Nnoitra had given him was disappearing quickly… he'd run out soon, and then he wouldn't be able to draw or put theories onto paper. The Mistress was stingy when it came to paper allotments since it was expensive. He'd have to improvise when that time came.

There was just one thing that bothered him. Grimmjow. He'd heard nothing from him yet… with any luck, he wouldn't hear anything. The man was probably dead. Though Szayel hadn't been in the frame of mind to think about it then, Grimmjow had consumed his blood against his will. It would turn to poison in his body and kill him sooner or later, depending on how much he'd taken.

Szayel was in the middle of arranging some flowers one of the girls had brought him when the news came that he had a client. He looked up, startled; he wasn't to have any clients until he was fully recovered. The woman left him in bed contemplating who it was that had insisted on visiting an injured man, but he could think of only one person who might, and that person was unlikely to come.

A minute passed. He finished arranging the flowers in their vase and held it still in his lap as he waited. He was incredibly self-conscious of how he looked; bandages covered his face and chest, though bruises peeked out from underneath them, hinting at the damage they hid. He was dressed in a plain cloth slip. His hair was undone and slightly mussed, his face free of makeup, and he hadn't bathed since the day before. Szayel looked disgraceful, but for a moment, he didn't care. For a moment, he forgot about all of it when Nnoitra stepped through the door.

Then it all came crashing down again, and his shoulders hunched as he looked away. This wasn't how he'd wanted Nnoitra to see him. He'd wanted to be strong and proud, not lowering his eyes in shame. Why was he here? Szayel couldn't give him what he wanted.

"It was a bitch convincing people to let me see you. I had to take it up with the owner of the establishment. She seemed to see the sense in accepting payment for someone who'd otherwise just be costing her money."

Obviously, he had a reason to be here. Nnoitra being Nnoitra, he'd get what he wanted. It didn't matter what condition he was in. Szayel sighed and lifted the vase of flowers, offering it to him. When Nnoitra took it, he leaned forward to grab the papers, brush, and pen he'd left sitting just a little ways to the side. The ink bottle rolled away when he shifted. The prostitute frowned and leaned further, then gasped as he put pressure on his broken leg and healing ribs. Jerking backwards, Szayel bit his lip to muffle any pained sounds that wanted to escape and tried to recover.

He felt Nnoitra place the ink jar in his lap. The mattress sank slightly as he sat on the bed. Opening his eyes, Szayel looked up at him, then back down at his papers. Then slowly, he uncorked the bottle and dipped the brush inside. If a conversation was what he wanted… Szayel wouldn't deny him. There were a few things he wanted to ask as well.

_Why come at all?_

"I didn't exactly get my money's worth last time," Nnoitra replied.

_You're mistaken if you expect to get your money's worth this time._

"I've convinced her to give me the next visit free, seeing as I paid full price last visit for nothing."

_Why pay for this visit when you knew I was still recovering?_

"I was curious. I wanted to see how quickly you'd heal from what happened."

Szayel crumpled the page he was writing on and threw it at him. Nnoitra moved to the side, and the ball of paper sailed over his shoulder.

"And here I thought you wanted to see me, Szay."

Szayel flipped him off. He really didn't want to put up with him right now. And what was the worst he could do? Break his fingers?

Nnoitra caught his hand, and for a moment, Szayel wondered if he actually would. But no. He was only holding them captive so he wouldn't make any more rude gestures. Nnoitra leaned in, expression serious.

"Hey. I paid for you. Now stop being catty, or I'll treat you like a bitch. Understand?"

Szayel nodded. Nnoitra released his fingers, looking satisfied.

"Good. So, give me an account of what he fucked with."

Szayel rubbed his hand sullenly, then picked up the brush to write again.

_Face beaten until one of the cheekbones fractured, pulverized flesh, various bite marks and abrasions, various shallow incisions, wrists rubbed raw from rope burn, several broken ribs, a punctured lung, which has since healed, internal bleeding, which has since stopped, a broken leg, bruising all over. Anemia probable. Healing is slow, due to the extent of the injuries._

"… fuck, he really meant to kill you."

_I'm not so certain. Originally, he just wanted to ruin me for you, but once he realized I heal unusually quickly, he took it as an opportunity to take out the revenge on me that he intended for you. I don't think it mattered to him whether I lived or died. _

"Fucking coward can't even face me like a man."

_You would have done the same in his place._

"I would have had the balls to face me instead of hiding behind the pathetic excuse of illness," Nnoitra said.

Illness. So Grimmjow was sick, but still alive…_ Wonderful._ What if he came back? What if he came to kill him next time? He wasn't allowed back, but he could probably handle the bouncers.

_He's ill?_

"Yeah. That's a fucking load of shit though. If he was healthy enough to beat you half to death, there's no way he could have come down sick the same day."

_Who told you he was ill?_

"Hearsay. There are some strange stories going around. All I know is that he hasn't set foot outside his family's walls since he got back. Fucker's probably too scared."

If he was still recovering, then he'd taken considerable damage. Maybe it was enough to keep him out of action for a while longer. He hoped so.

"You don't look happy about that news," Nnoitra observed. Szayel glanced up.

_The only news I want to hear is news of his death._

Nnoitra seemed to approve of this.

"He's a dead man. Soon as I'm able, he's dead. I'm not going to let him get away with insulting me like that."

_You'll start a war._

"They won't be able to prove it was me."

_They could make the connection._

"And so what? Then we crush them, take their wealth, and sell their servants into slavery. They want war, they can deal with the consequences of spitting on our pride."

Szayel closed his eyes and hugged himself. He didn't want to think of that. It reminded him too closely of what had happened to him.

"I thought you wanted him dead."

Yes. He did. Szayel sighed and nodded. And… if Nnoitra could do that, then he wouldn't complain. Whatever else happened wasn't his problem.

"Hey." Nnoitra's voice interrupted his train of thought. "You're being strange tonight. Care to explain? If it's 'cause I disappeared for a while, I had things to take care of."

No… that wasn't it, though it was nice to know why he hadn't come. As expected, it was a perfectly ordinary reason. Responsibilities back at home.

_I didn't think you'd come back, after what happened._

"What? I was just trying to catch up to Grimmjow. You weren't goin' anywhere fast."

_There was no guarantee I would survive or recover. _

Nnoitra leaned back and shot him a lazy look.

"Szayel, how many times do I have to say it? You're mine. Only I get to decide if or when you're no longer valuable to me. And believe me, I'll let you know."

Simple as that. Nnoitra had claimed him.

He wasn't sure what to think, only knew that his entire body tingled upon hearing that affirmation. He remembered all the speeches he'd prepared that week, how he'd rejected all of them because couldn't get the words right. He still couldn't get the words right. He was good at crafting verses and distilling emotion into poetry, but that skill eluded him now. The translation stalled as soon as he tried to give it form.

What of his plans for independence? What of approaching him as his own person instead of someone's property? He didn't know. It had all seemed so clear, that he needed to leave this place, but suddenly, he wasn't sure. He began to doubt himself again. But…

Szayel pushed himself to write. It had to come out. His hand trembled as he held the brush, poised to begin on a fresh page…

_I… understand._

He couldn't do it. He still couldn't write the words. As he stared at the characters he'd written, he wondered if he ever could.

Coward. Coward coward _coward._

"Good. I don't want to hear you questioning me again."

Szayel looked up and offered him a small smile.

No, he wouldn't question him again. He'd just accept.

Except… it wasn't the right thing to do. The right thing to do was defy him.

But this was easier.

But it changed nothing. The words were still there, unwritten. They still waited to be given life. And how he longed to give them life.

_Nnoitra?_

"Mm?"

He tried again, and failed again.

_What's your family like?_

"Eh… why do you want to know?"

_Just curious._

"Che… well, I've got two older brothers and a younger sister. The oldest is a condescending asshole. He's first and he fucking knows it. Never fails to let you know it either. Second is lazy as all hell, but he could probably show him up if he actually wanted to. Then there's our little sister. She's a brat. Enough said. Someone needs to put her in her place, uppity little bitch. My parents are barely tolerable. Most of the vassals are morons. That satisfy your curiosity?"

_You really don't get along with many people, do you?_

"Fuck them. They don't like me, they can suck my dick."

Why did he care for this man? He was abrasive, abusive, violent, crude, arrogant, self absorbed-

"And you?"

…

_At best, I had a strained relationship with my older brother._

"Heh. Bastards, always lookin' down on us."

_I never did manage to catch up to him… not in the ways the people cared about._

"Who the fuck cares what they think?"

Szayel smiled wryly.

_I ended up here, didn't I?_

Nnoitra had nothing to say to that.

_Perhaps if I'd been just a little better at fighting, I wouldn't have ended up here. Perhaps if I'd tried a little harder instead of accepting that it wasn't my strong point, I might have stood more of a chance. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it was always my fate. I was raised with the belief that my destiny was to serve others, and in a way, I'm fulfilling that. I am serving others, but in the basest of ways._

"I swear you're the most depressing person I know," Nnoitra finally remarked.

_You're the one who started talking to me, Nnoitra. You could have easily spared yourself the sordid details of my life by taking advantage of the fact I'm mute._

"Well fuck, do you always have to start philosophizing on me? I get enough of that shit from my oldest brother."

_Then what do you want to talk about?_

"Who says I wanna talk?"

_There… isn't much else I can do with you._

"Yeah, I know you're a cripple right now. But you can do other things, right?"

_Well… yes, but you don't seem like the type who is appreciative of the fine arts._

"If you mean poetry and tea and flower arranging, then no."

_Hm…_

"Don't you know anything less… feminine?"

_Some samurai you are. But fortunately for you, yes._

"I can do all that too, but that doesn't mean I have to enjoy it."

_Haha, and believe me, the image of you doing any of them is quite amusing. I'm surprised you had the patience to learn. _

"Tch. You're supposed to be naming an activity, remember?"

Szayel smiled again. It was still small, but this time, it was genuine.

_Of course. Have you ever played Shogi, Nnoitra?_

* * *

**A/N:** That's right Nnoitra. Shut him up. We're as tired of his emo, bitchy philosophizing as you are.

Ahem. And thus concludes chapter 14. Thoughts? Feelings? Well, it's a fluffy chapter. And uh… yeah. No sex. I'm sure you're all thrilled by that. Shogi is sort of like the Japanese version of chess, but I couldn't be bothered to research the rules because I'm on NaNoWriMo time damnit, and I can't afford to slow down and do that or I will lose my muse. So I generalized. A lot. Also, Kaname….. you cheating cheater. Dear god he's turning into a troll in this story. He's not supposed to be a troll 8C Wrrrrrryyyyy?

Anyways, things are about to speed up, folks. We're heading towards a singularity where the past is about to catch up to the present, and shit will go down.

Or maybe it won't. I'm still debating whether or not I want to drop a certain character on you all. We'll see. I apologize for nothing. (Wheeeee isn't it exciting when the author doesn't even know what's going to happen next?)

R&R loves. I'll see you in the next update.


	15. Confesión

His celebration was quiet, eclipsed by his older brother's birthday. It was just one more reason why he resented Yylfordt. Some cruel twist of fate had determined that their birthdays would be on the same date. Still, Lady Tsukiyo made sure that Szayel had his own time to feel like the day belonged to him too.

Which wasn't to say that Szayel was paid no attention during the festivities. Yylfordt probably resented him in turn for stealing some of the day that had once been entirely his. But for the most part, the elder boy received the lion's share of attention. He was the one that stood to inherit his father's lands, not Szayel. He was the golden child.

After blessings were given and the day's rituals complete, Yylfordt went to spend time with his father. It was an honor the boy looked forward to each year, and was one that Szayel had envied him for as long as he could remember. But now, as he left to seek out his mother, he no longer felt the same bitterness he'd felt in previous years. If Yylfordt wanted to spend time with Father and listen to matters of state- things the blonde didn't care for to begin with -then he could subject himself to that. Szayel knew that anything he'd do with Tsukiyo would be worlds more interesting.

Indeed, he met his mother at her secret study in the woods on the edge of their home. She'd given him the summons earlier, and he'd been waiting all day for this. It was early evening. The sun was beginning to dip low on the horizon, but it was still a few hours before dusk. The air was warm, with a touch of humidity. Whatever would happen next, magic was bound to be involved. It had to be. The secrecy that surrounded their meeting pointed towards this tantalizing conclusion.

She had a horse with her, saddled and ready. He raised an eyebrow as he approached her, but she didn't seem to care; his mother looked excited, as if it were her own birthday she was celebrating.

"Come quickly now, Szayel. The sooner we leave, the less likely anyone is to notice that we're gone," she said.

"Mother… you're not going to ride that horse, are you?"

"Of course. We've got a ways to travel, butterfly."

Szayel pursed his lips as he came to a stop in front of her. He mustered all the authority in his ten year old body, which admittedly wasn't much, and gave her the primmest look he could manage.

"No. You are eight months pregnant. I don't want you riding a horse and risking the pregnancy."

Lady Tsukiyo laughed. When he frowned, defensive, she pulled him to her and gave him a little hug. It was made awkward by the bulge of her belly, but it was no less heartfelt. Her gesture mollified him. Slightly.

"Oh Szayel, sweetling, I know what I'm doing. Aren't I the one who taught you everything you know about medicine? I'll be just fine."

Szayel pulled away, hiding his sulkiness. She was right. He hated that she was right. Maybe she knew the risks better than him, but he still didn't think it was the most prudent of activities to be engaging in so close to her due date. Still, when she helped him up into the saddle, he didn't voice his mutinous thoughts. It wasn't his place to.

They took off shortly after, though they travelled at a slow pace through the trees. When they were finally clear of them, Tsukiyo urged the animal into a full gallop. Their horse was of fine stock; he sailed over the landscape with remarkable smoothness for his speed. Szayel was fairly certain that fine ladies were not supposed to know how to ride horses like this, but his mother was anything but ordinary. She seemed capable of doing whatever she set her mind to, especially when she was free of the restraints her husband's house imposed on her. Here, she was the spirited, mischievous spirit he knew her to be in private. As they rode, she pulled the pins out of her hair and let it unravel in the wind. It would be a glorious, tangled mess when they finally got back, but when he peeked over his shoulder to look at her, the expression on her face made it clear that it was worth it.

He wasn't sure where they were going, but the landscape was beautiful. In the distance, he could see the mountains that ran along the interior of the country. They passed rice paddy after rice paddy, and for the first time, he saw the people who worked in his family's fields to produce the rice that made their wealth. He was above this class of peasant folk, but it was interesting to see how diligently they tended to their crop. Their backs were bent, their hands perpetually dipping into the water and mud. However, they straightened to watch them as they passed by on horseback.

After a time, Lady Tsukiyo turned them inland. They began to ascend the hills, angling towards the forests up beyond the low lying farmland. Szayel's cheeks glowed pink from the wind, and he leaned back against his mother for warmth, but it wasn't much longer before they began to slow. Lady Tsukiyo finally stopped the horse at the edge of the forest and dismounted, then helped him down. As she went to tie the horse to one of the trees, Szayel peered around, trying to figure out why they'd come here. They were high in the hills, just on the edge of civilized land. The forest really marked the end of human dominion.

"Isn't it marvelous, my love? I've wanted to bring you here for a while," his mother said as she returned.

"It's pretty… but why are we here?" Szayel replied. Lady Tsukiyo smiled and took his hand.

"Let me show you."

She led him into the trees. The moment he set foot in the forest, he knew this wasn't some place he was supposed to be. It felt like he was being watched.

"Okaa-san… I feel strange."

"It's ok, Szayel. Nothing will hurt you.

He clung to his mother instinctively upon hearing those words. She seemed at ease, but he just couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't welcome. Sensing his discomfort, she squeezed his hand to reassure him. It helped. A little.

The trail they followed was faint and meandering. It looked more like an animal trail than one that humans had forged. His feelings of apprehension continued to grow as less and less light filtered through the trees and their path became shadowy. Then, finally, the trail opened up to reveal a small clearing with a shrine at the center. At the sight of this structure, all of his anxiety faded away, as if it had never existed in the first place.

"It's a shrine to the god Inari," Lady Tsukiyo explained. He could see that. A pair of carved stone foxes guarded the small edifice. Each had a necklace of pearls around its throat and a stalk of rice in its mouth, representing the god's role in agriculture.

Somehow, it just made sense to be here. He didn't know why. He'd never visited this place, but there was something very comforting about it.

"You feel it, don't you Szayel? The energy of this place? It's like being home."

She knelt and wrapped her arms around him, resting her head against his chest. Though he couldn't see her face, he was suddenly overwhelmed with her emotions, feeling them as his own. He stiffened at first, not understanding what was happening, but gradually, he calmed down again. This was a spiritual place. There were some things that just couldn't be explained. And so he let her have this private moment of vulnerability, listening to her joy and the underlying bittersweetness of her longing. When she pulled away to look up at him, she was slightly teary-eyed. But she was also smiling.

"You're growing up, my butterfly. You're ten years old today. In a few years, you'll begin to grow distant from me as you find your own way. Just know that you will always be my beautiful boy. I will always love you, wherever life takes you. And I wish that I could keep you forever like this. But I know that eventually, I'll have to let you go.

But for your tenth birthday, I can still be special to you. I can still be someone you haven't outgrown yet. And I know that in a month, I'll be busy with the baby. She's going to take up most of my time for a while, so I want tonight to be special."

"She? How do you know?"

"I have a feeling. But what do you want to do? We can do anything you want, my love. Anything at all for your birthday."

Anything. If he could have anything, then he would want to be able to use magic like Tsukiyo. But he knew this wasn't something his mother could give him, so instead, he'd settle for the next best thing.

"I want to see you do magic. Make an illusion. Something beautiful."

Lady Tsukiyo gave him a fond look, then rose and kissed his cheek.

"As you wish."

She stood behind him. He felt her hands rest on his shoulders. The sun was blazing a brilliant orange-gold through the trees as it sank on the horizon. And he knew, without a doubt, that the illusion he was about to see would be spectacular. He could feel it in his bones.

When the first lick of flame sprang from the paws of the stone fox guardians, he watched them; transfixed. He saw them breathe and stretch as the fire consumed them and burned away the crumbling, gray shells of stone that had once contained them. Instead of just one tail, they'd grown nine each. Their fur was a magnificent gold; resplendent as the setting sun, but soft and inviting too. Even as he secretly longed to touch them, they walked up to him and bowed.

Such beautiful, divine creatures… bowing to him. He knew they were only an illusion, but it was an incredible experience nonetheless. He felt his heart jump when they rose and curled around his legs, and he reached down to pet their heads and stroke their fur in adoration. Tsukiyo was so good, it was all so realistic…

He heard his mother laughing, and the illusory fire vanished. But the foxes didn't. They walked back over to the statues they'd appeared from and sat beside them, tails flicking back and forth in amusement as they watched him. Szayel watched them in turn, eyes wide.

"Oh Szayel, you should see the look on your face!"

"A-are they real?"

Lady Tsukiyo was giggling too hard to answer. Szayel stared at them suspiciously until one of them winked at him. He took a step back.

Tsukiyo finally managed to compose herself long enough to answer him.

"Yes, they're real. I only made their entrance theatrical. Say hello, love. These two are my old teachers."

"Hello," he breathed, suddenly lost for words. His mother's teachers. What they must be capable of…

Tsukiyo murmured something in his ear. Something that sounded vaguely like "happy birthday." But he couldn't be sure. His attention was entirely devoted to the two kitsune in front of him.

-.-.-.-.-.-

Nnoitra visited every week. Sometimes he brought Shizuka, sometimes he left the dog at home. Though Szayel felt slightly anxious when he wasn't around, half expecting Grimmjow to turn up seeking revenge, he was content for the most part. His leg continued to be an inconvenience, and he did hate that he relied heavily on the assistance of others during his convalescent phase, but he also had fewer worries. There were no clients to attend to- except for Nnoitra, and even he was surprisingly undemanding.

There were evenings he could tell he wanted more. Nnoitra was by nature a very sexual person, but at most, their interactions devolved to erotic touching and foreplay. The positions Szayel could be in with Nnoitra without hurting his leg were very limited. If he'd broken his lower leg, there would have been more he could have done for him.

There was an unspoken contract between them that Szayel would make up for this when he was fully recovered; he had no doubt that Nnoitra would push him just short of breaking point.

In a way, he looked forward to that. He liked the things that Nnoitra did to him. Once upon a time, he might have denied that he had masochistic tendencies, but he couldn't deny now that he found Nnoitra's roughness arousing. Or maybe it was his confidence he liked, the way he knew his body and how to make him feel _good_. But… he also liked these quiet evenings, where he could spend time playing a game of Shogi or some music, talking to Nnoitra, and just relaxing.

He was also reluctant to break that calm. Every time an opportunity presented itself for him to tell Nnoitra how he felt, he recoiled from the words. He didn't want a confrontation. He wanted their current situation to continue as long as he could make it last… even if it meant sabotaging his own plans again.

That guilt, and the fear that his indecisiveness would come back to haunt him in some form, were the only real blips in his happiness. Because he was happy. Honestly, genuinely happy. He understood why it was that Umeko would sacrifice so much for her Kaitou. He knew he was foolish for it, but he couldn't bring himself to care anymore. There was no point trying to convince himself that he could suddenly stop feeling what he did. That it was dangerous and illogical and it would most likely end up with him being hurt.

He just wanted to feel happy for a little bit longer.

-.-.-.-.-.-

"I hate Shogi," Nnoitra declared after his fourth consecutive loss. The tall man wore a scowl as he stared down at the board that clearly showed the massacre of his fictional troops.

Szayel grinned back at him, thrilled with his success. Nnoitra was no Kaname, but victory was a feeling he rarely experienced, and Szayel was quite addicted to it. Yet even though he'd beaten Nnoitra quite soundly the previous week, the man just kept trying. It was like he couldn't accept that Szayel was besting him, so he had to keep playing until he finally showed him up. Szayel was only too happy to accommodate this.

He seemed to have had enough of it for tonight, however.

"Ah fuck it. I'm not gonna win against you."

Szayel reached for his pad of paper. Nnoitra had brought him more like he'd requested. His supply was good for a while.

_Does this mean we aren't playing anymore? _

"Maybe next week. But fucking hell, Szayel. How do you do it? Week after week, you win."

_ I used to play against a man with supernatural talent. I also happen to be a strategic genius._

"I never know when you're joking and when you're serious," Nnoitra said as he gave him a dubious look.

_I'm being absolutely serious, can't you tell?_

Nnoitra grunted.

"Well I'll admit that there's something to you. That wasn't luck."

Szayel smiled to himself and began to pack away the Shogi board and pieces. It belonged to the House, so he couldn't afford to let any of them get lost. He wasn't sure what they'd do next, but he was enjoying his evening so far.

His injuries were healing nicely. The bruising and swelling were starting to go down now that his bones were almost completely healed. His body seemed to treat the most serious wounds first, then the less threatening injuries next. It made sense, but that didn't mean he had to like it. He was more than ready for his face to stop looking the approximate shade an overripe plum.

"I mean, I'm not the best at Shogi, but I've never lost so badly. I can hold my own when I want to win. Not that you'd know it from our matches, tch…"

Nnoitra was still sore about losing. Like Szayel, he was a competitive man. And like Szayel, he had the tendency to hold onto rancor. It was best if he headed off that resentment now.

_Nnoitra, while I may have written my previous words jokingly, what I said wasn't a joke. One of my teachers was a very unusual man. He was capable of seeing more than an ordinary person could. Paired with his experience, he made a formidable opponent. I learned from the best. It took me a long time before I finally won against him._

_ He was my strategy teacher. He helped me realize my own strengths. I'm not a swordsman. I can defend myself, but combat is not where I excel. My greatest strength is my ability to take abstract theory or concepts and apply them practically. Give me numbers, basic behavior patterns, and a description of terrain, and I can tell you how to counter an invading army. Furthermore, I can think on my feet and adapt quickly. At any given time, I may have three or four strategies in place, which may be tweaked as needed._

_ That is why you cannot and probably will not ever beat me at Shogi. The playing field isn't even. It's not that you are a poor player, Nnoitra. It's just that our levels are very different in this regard. _

Nnoitra didn't reply immediately. Szayel watched his face, wondering if he'd made things worse. It wasn't always easy to tell with him.

"You were more than the kid of some high ranked vassal, weren't you?" he finally said.

It wasn't what Szayel had been expecting. Not at all. He blinked.

"I'd kind of assumed that's what you were when I learned where you came from. You seemed too learned to be an ordinary servant, but… I didn't expect you were a full-fledged noble. Since, well…"

_Since I'm supposed to be dead?_

"Basically."

_Yes, well I'm clearly alive. Not exactly thriving, but doing better than can be expected given the circumstances._

"How can you stand it? You were the son of a powerful regional lord, and now you're a whore."

_Thank you for reminding me. I never would have noticed if you hadn't brought it back to the forefront of our conversation._

"Well if you're so brilliant, why didn't you do anything about it?"

Szayel just stared across at him. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to be having. But if he was going to be blunt about the way he phrased things, then Szayel would do the same.

_Because I was ten._

That shut him up. Just like the last time, it wasn't something the other man could swallow easily, and Szayel could see it in his face that he didn't like it. Especially now that he understood that their positions had been equal. It was an indirect threat; there was the possibility that he might lose it all like Szayel had some day. Here he was, fraternizing with the lowest class of society, and he was staring into the eyes of someone who had been where he'd been.

_I can't stand it, of course. I have learned to accept it over the years, but I hate this life. There are so many things I could have done, so many things I could be doing, and instead, I'm here. Selling my time and body to whoever will pay for it. _

"Then why stay? You're not ten anymore," Nnoitra finally asked. He still looked disturbed by the revelation of Szayel's former status. Perhaps that was why he'd asked something so foolish.

Szayel laughed.

_Are you telling me I should leave? Should I walk right out as soon as I'm healed? No warning, no goodbye. Just slip out one night, never to be heard from again?_

Nnoitra opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. He frowned. His instinct was to say yes, doubtlessly, but he thought better of his comment. If Szayel left, Nnoitra lost all claims over him. He couldn't simultaneously be his own person and Nnoitra's property.

_I'll admit, it's been on my mind recently._

"Oh. Really."

_Yes. I haven't cared enough to consider escaping for several years now, but I've come to a conclusion now._

"Yeah? And what's that?" Nnoitra pretended to look unconcerned, but Szayel could sense his mood was darkening. Nnoitra perceived a threat to the way things currently worked, and he didn't like it. But this time, Szayel was the one looking for a reaction. He wanted to see how Nnoitra would respond to what he would say next.

_I'm going to leave. As soon as my body allows, I'm leaving the House._

Silence.

… but oh, the murderous aura he felt from the man. It rolled off of him, thick and noxious. Szayel hadn't felt him this angry for a long time. He closed his eyes and fiddled with his brush, waiting for him to get violent with him, but instead, Nnoitra stood. He heard him begin to pace the room.

"I never gave you permission to leave."

He'd finally come to a stop in front of him. Szayel opened his eyes to glance up at him.

_You suggested it just a few minutes ago._

He looked angrier at having his own words thrown back in his face and seemed poised to lash out. Szayel sighed.

_I'm not going anywhere, Nnoitra. I can't. It'll be another week at least before I might be able to leave. And if you really want to keep me here, all you have to do is break one of my legs. It's very easy to keep me trapped._

Nnoitra leaned in and grabbed his chin, forcing his face up at an uncomfortable angle. He was back to manhandling him.

"Shouldn't have to break your legs. You should already know your place."

Nnoitra let go of his chin.

Szayel reached up and captured his face before he could straighten again.

Maybe he was being too daring. He wasn't sure what had come over him. Nnoitra certainly looked surprised at first, then irritated. Szayel had overstepped his bounds many times that evening; he would have expected to be punished long before this point. In fact, he didn't expect to come out of this unpunished.

Maybe that was why he finally threw all caution to the wind and kissed him.

Szayel pulled him down gently so he wouldn't balk on instinct, but when their lips met, his kiss was anything but soft. It was an urgent kiss; uncertain and thrilling in its desperation. A hungry kiss, imbued with all the pent up longing inside of him. It was a bruising kiss. Like everything about their relationship, it hurt. But the pain was a bittersweet fire that warmed him. He wouldn't have given it up for anything.

It was everything he wanted to say but couldn't. All the words he'd struggled to put down on paper, and had ultimately rejected. And he prayed Nnoitra would understand as he broke away, breath escaping his parted, swollen lips unevenly. He forced himself to open his eyes and look at him, even as his whole body was thrumming with adrenaline. His heart fluttered like the wing beat of a hummingbird, straining against the confines of his ribcage. It felt like it just might stop if he didn't receive an answer soon.

_Please… Nnoitra._

He mouthed the words. His fingers traced characters on his cheek in the blind hope that he might respond to a verbal plea.

_Take me with you._

Nnoitra didn't answer. But a moment later, he felt the man's mouth on his. And then they were tumbling backwards onto the bed, never mind his still-healing leg. He didn't care. All he wanted was for Nnoitra to keep kissing him, because once they stopped, he would have to face up to his actions. There was no pretending anymore.

He couldn't hide what he'd already confessed.

* * *

**A/N: **I honestly don't know how I felt about that chapter. It was kind of short. Looking at my outline, I see that it was meant to be short. But it was still too short. The events happened too quickly.

Oh well. Moving on.

This chapter was supposed to be happy. :| I don't know why it ended up less fluffy than the last. It was supposed to be more fluffy. Which just goes to show yet again that I don't really know what I'm doing. Have some romantic drama instead. Woohoo! (Enjoy it while you can.)

R&R lovies. I'm not positive when the next chapter will be up… probably soon, since NaNoWriMo is pushing me to keep up with my word count, but… it's going to be a bit challenging for me to write. I'll let you all wonder about that ambiguous statement until the next update. See you then!


	16. Cambio

"You're doing so well Szayel. I am very proud of you." Lady Tsukiyo smiled and gave him a warm hug as they finished their lesson. It was true. He was making good progress, even by his own strict standards, but he would have continued for another hour or two if he had it his way. However, he couldn't ask his mother to keep up her illusions for much longer. Using magic continuously for any length of time exhausted her now, and she could only give him an hour if she strained herself.

"Thank you, mother. May I borrow a few of your books to continue studying on my own?"

"Of course, dear. Just don't misplace them," she said.

He went up on tiptoe to kiss her cheek, then wished her goodnight before he went to pull a few books off her shelves. Tsukiyo left as he searched for the particular volumes he wanted.

Honestly, he was beginning to worry about her. She insisted on continuing their lessons, even though the child was due in about two weeks. Her ankles were swollen and bloated, her distended belly made moving around awkward, and she was constantly fatigued. Her skin looked paler than usual, even a little translucent perhaps. After his birthday celebration, her condition had begun to steadily deteriorate. She told him it was a sign that the child was inheriting Youkai blood very strongly; she'd gone through the same thing when she'd had him. Not only was the baby absorbing nutrients from her body, it was draining her spiritual energy too. The combination was especially taxing on her.

Szayel finished gathering his materials, then blew out the lamps and left the study. He clutched the books to his chest as he walked through the woods alone. Usually he and Tsukiyo walked back together. He liked to make sure that she didn't fall on the way or suffer some complication this late in her pregnancy, but it was also comforting to walk back with someone through the dark. Nothing dangerous lived in the woods. There wasn't really anything to fear, but he still felt exposed and vulnerable when he walked alone, and this was a feeling he preferred to avoid.

The moon was bright enough to light his way that night. It turned everything it touched a washed out silver. Though he walked quickly, once he'd gotten past the woods, he slowed to admire the night. It was beautiful. The world was a stark slate of blacks and whites and grays just waiting to be filled with color come sunrise. He loved the simplicity of everything. Night had a restful feeling, unlike the busy hours of morning, afternoon, and evening. But it didn't feel dead like predawn. It was calm, but still very much alive. There was potential left in the darkened hours.

The weight of the books in his arms soon pulled him from his contemplation. Szayel sped up again, hurrying back to his room. It wouldn't do to dally outside and gaze at the moon when he had things left to learn. His thoughts turned towards his studies, and his head was soon filled with ideas and theories about what he'd been learning.

Tsukiyo had made certain to give him a rigorous education in the basics of what was known about the world around them, and it was up to him to take this information and apply it to discover new things. His passions soon extended beyond the medicinal realm. He held a particular interest in the interplay of spiritual energy between living beings and nature. He was intensely curious about what it was that decided why some beings or objects became Youkai, and why blood didn't inherit equally. It was probably beyond his skill level at that point, but it was something he was interested in. Even magic had to have an explanation behind it. He was certain there was a method to the way it functioned. Perhaps this was blasphemous of him to consider, but the Gods didn't seem likely to come down to the lowly mortal world and tell him the secrets of the universe, if they even understood it themselves.

He was so enthralled with his own thoughts that when a figure stepped out in front of him, he didn't take notice until it was too late. Szayel ran headfirst into another person. A moment of chaos followed. His books tumbled from his arms, and he gave a little cry of surprise as he was shoved backwards.

"Watch where you're going," came Yylfordt's voice, never mind that he'd been the one to step in Szayel's way. Szayel shot him a glare, then stooped to collect his books.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked, checking them for damage.

"I could ask the same of you."

"None of your business."

"Likewise, little brother."

"Hmph." Szayel stood, books in his arms once more. It was fortunate that none of them had been damaged. He wasn't sure what he would have told their mother if he'd returned her precious books in poorer condition than he'd borrowed them in. Yylfordt just didn't understand their value, and Szayel held his sibling in contempt for it.

Yylfordt seemed to sense this, for he curled his lip as Szayel brushed past him and reached out to grab his arm.

"What's your problem?" he asked.

"You're my problem," Szayel replied.

"Oh, that's a laugh. You're the one that came along and ruined things."

"How did _I_ ruin things? Everyone's always comparing me to you! If anything, you ruined _my_ life."

"Well I was here first! And you don't think I get compared to you too? "

He had to admit, the thought hadn't occurred to him before. But Szayel found that he didn't particularly care. It took him years to work through his jealousy, and he still felt it … just not quite as strongly. He'd grown to appreciate himself and his own talents.

Szayel smirked.

"Bitter that your little brother is upstaging you, Forte? I don't blame you. Aside from your combat talent and firstborn status, there's really nothing to recommend you. You'd make a good lackey for someone, but not a good leader."

He was prepared to dodge the punch that came. Yylfordt was so easy to upset when his pride was on the line. Szayel neatly ducked his swing, then set off running. But he hadn't counted on the books he held being quite the hindrance that they proved to be.* Yylfordt caught up to him and tackled him to the ground. Szayel's books went flying for a second time that evening as he landed hard. All the breath was squashed from his lungs, and he wiggled uselessly under the older boy as he straddled him and yanked his hair.

Szayel whimpered and flailed a little more. It _hurt_.

"What was that? You want to say that again?" Yylfordt taunted. He let go of his hair to twist his arms behind his back painfully.

"Get off me!"

"Not until you apologize to your nii-sama."

Szayel bit his lip, but refused. He absolutely refused to apologize to him. Irritated by his silence, Yylfordt twisted his arms harder.

Then something happened that neither of them expected. They heard the clamor of the warning gong being struck. Yylfordt let go of his arms and sat back, and the both of them turned to look in the direction of the tower where the guardsmen kept vigil. Szayel felt a chill run through him as the sound of drums started up.

"What's happening?" he whispered.

"I'm not sure," Yylfordt replied, sounding equally unnerved, "I guess… I guess we're under attack."

It took a moment for those words to sink in, but once they did, both boys blanched. The sound of the gong became their pulse as they scrambled to their feet and raced for the safety of the inner house.

-.-.-.-.-.-

He hadn't answered his wordless confession. Nor had made any indication that he'd taken Szayel's desperate request into consideration. Nnoitra had kissed him into the mattress until he was breathless and close to passing out, then stripped him and had his way with him, regardless of his condition. He'd waited long enough apparently.

The result was a very sore, very emotionally fragile Szayel. Though Nnoitra had the surprising consideration to stop at just one round, and though he hadn't shown complete disregard for the fact Szayel was still healing, he brushed off any meaning associated with the kiss that had precipitated the rest of the evening. And when Szayel watched him finally leave, for once about as silent as Szayel himself, he felt his spirits sink. He knew he'd be back next week; he had no fear of that. But it seemed his sentiments wouldn't even be a discussion topic.

He shouldn't have done anything. He should have just kept it to himself where at least it wouldn't backfire on him and cause him more trouble. Did he honestly expect anything to come of it? Nnoitra wasn't capable of reciprocating that kind of emotion, and if he was, it certainly wouldn't be directed towards him. Why would he? Szayel was a prostitute. Someone he paid for. Not a lover; not anything but something he'd laid claim to and occasionally defended as property, as in the case of Grimmjow. But now he was aware of how Szayel thought about him- if he hadn't before –and things would probably change for the worse. Nnoitra was opportunistic. It was only a matter of time before he used it to his advantage.

If Szayel had thought he was manipulative before, this was really only the beginning. He could go through with his idea to run away, but it wasn't really what he wanted anymore. He didn't want to just vanish. He wanted someone to care He'd gambled. Hoped Nnoitra's proprietary side spoke louder than his pride, and he'd be willing to buy him from the House. He'd left himself open, and he'd lost. Yet he couldn't bring himself to do anything about it. Not right now, anyways… Maybe later he'd be able to convince himself that it really was best to move on. Szayel hoped so.

He'd be fully healed by the time Nnoitra next saw him. Things would return to the way they'd been before. And that thought weighed heavy on him. Szayel slept fitfully that night, woken intermittently by less than peaceful dreams.

-.-.-.-.-.-

His mood did improve as the week progressed. It wasn't a significant improvement, but he did feel better as his body's aches finally abated. He removed the bandages covering his cheekbone one day and went over to his mirror to see how it had recovered. The skin was smooth and marred only by the faint shadows of a vanishing bruise, and the bone seemed to have fixed itself flawlessly. The rest of his body told the same story. In another day, no trace of his injuries would remain.

It was an amazing recovery, and one that would please the Mistress no doubt. Her investment had paid off after all. Sure enough, when she learned that he was capable of accepting customers again, she added his name back to the list of available prostitutes. Szayel took this news with a touch of reluctance, but seeing as there wasn't much he could do about it, kept his thoughts to himself. However, he couldn't bring himself to interact with the other girls. He kept to himself as much as possible.

It caused some backlash, predictably. The women who'd lavished attention on him now turned their noses up at him for being standoffish. Only the ones who knew him best recognized there was something going on beyond what appeared to be the case. Umeko gave him space, though he could tell she wanted to know what was going on. Torako on the other hand… well, she made it her business to pay him a visit.

"Oi, pink haired bitch. What's going on now?" she asked as she marched into his bedroom. Szayel looked up from his papers, then put the designs he was painting to the side. The woman plopped down next to him and crossed her arms.

"Seriously Shizuka. You're finally cleared for work, and you hole yourself up in your room. I'd think you'd be dying to get out of this place. You've only been stuck here for a month. Which is actually way too short of a time, but you're more than a little freaky."

_Thank you for your concern. I am well, Torako._

"Oh, bullshit. I'm not falling for that. You're sulking again, 'zuka. Mind telling me why?"

_Why do you want to know?_

"Because I want to make sure I won't be pulling your corpse out of any hot tubs."

_I wasn't trying to commit suicide on that occasion. I was testing my lung capacity._

"And the incident where Sumire found you half dead in the music room?"

_What about it?_

"You took something, didn't you? You're always messing around with those plants of yours."

_It was far from a lethal dose. I was having trouble sleeping._

"So you did take something!"

_Yes, Torako. I took something._

"Well stop it. Stop doing stupid things. Maybe you don't realize it, but there are people who care about you."

_Like you?_

"Haha, wouldn't you like that?"

_Just the contrary. Wouldn't you?_

"Oh shut up, Shizuka."

She leaned over and pinched his cheeks. It was undignified, but at least she looked pleased to see that he didn't seem liable to kill himself anytime soon. If only she knew. It was near impossible for him to die by poison, though the process of detoxification would be just as unpleasant. Any poison he took would have to act near instantaneously to kill him. If Szayel really wanted to kill himself, the surest way would be to break his own neck or suffocate. Drowning was one of the few ways guaranteed to kill him.

"Anyways, why don't you come out? I know you're hung up over that one asshole, but he's not coming until tomorrow," Torako said.

_I'd really prefer to stay in my room._

"Come _on_, be social for a change."

_Torako, if I have to listen to any more gossip about whose client was the best in bed-_

Just as he was about to word his threat, they were interrupted. The messenger girl stepped in.

"Shizuka, you've been reserved. Your client will be over in a few minutes," she informed him. Noticing Torako, she gestured to her, "You too, actually. Someone else wants to see you. So clean up and get back to your room." Messages delivered, the woman left. Torako stuck her tongue out at her as she closed the door.

"Stuck up bitch. Just because she doesn't make a living on her back like the rest of us doesn't give her the right to order us around," she commented.

_Charming as ever, Torako._

"Well it's true. She's got a nice body though. I'm looking forward to the day when some client decides he wants a piece of that and the Mistress tells her to suck it up and spread her legs for him."

_You're terrible._

Torako laughed.

"I regret nothing. But it's what happened to the last messenger girl, so she's got it coming too. Just you wait. Shall we place bets, Shizuka?"

_The thought of what you might extort should you win is simply terrifying. I'm afraid I'll have to decline._

"You're no fun." Torako stood and padded over to the door. Just before she left, she glanced over her shoulder and pulled a face at him, "Good luck with your client. Maybe I'll catch you in the shower later?"

He gave her a flat look. She grinned lewdly, then departed.

…That woman… There really was nothing subtle about her. Szayel shook his head and began to pick up his room. He set his designs on his dresser to dry so the ink wouldn't smear, then made sure he looked presentable in the mirror. After retouching the makeup Torako had smudged, he went to sit down on his bed. He was just tying on his blindfold when he heard his client walk in.

At first, he had the terrible thought that it might be Grimmjow finally returning to take revenge, but after holding his breath for a moment, he realized it wouldn't be him. The Mistress had banned him from the House, so there was no way for him to obtain an official reservation, and besides… he would have made his presence known much more aggressively.

"Please, take off your blindfold. I can't really get a good look at you with it on," the man said. His voice was… very distinctive. Szayel wasn't quite sure how to describe it, but it made his skin crawl a little to hear. Slightly unsettled, he nonetheless obliged his client's request and lowered the piece of cloth. Szayel startled to find himself staring directly into eyes that were the same brilliant shade of gold as his own. The man was standing right in front of him and had leaned in very close to peer at him. Szayel hadn't heard or felt him approach.

He was possibly the most eccentric looking person he'd ever met. His hair was a dark, vibrant blue, and cut in a haphazard style. His face was painted white and black, giving it a mask-like appearance. His ears were pierced with exotic gold ornaments. Even as Szayel stared, the man's eyes narrowed in mirth, and he grinned widely.

"Oh _yes_. You're the one I want."

Szayel shuddered and leaned back. There was something he didn't like about this man. It was strange. He couldn't feel anything from him. Everyone had an electric field about them. Sometimes he could sense intents as well… some rudimentary sensory skill that dealt with spiritual energy, he supposed. His sense of foreboding increased as he watched the man remove an item from his robes that turned out to be an unusual dagger with a wavy blade.

Oh gods. Had Grimmjow sent someone in his place to murder him? Not willing to wait and find out, Szayel scrambled away from him and fled for the door. He felt the man catch his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. Szayel turned and tried to yank his arm away, but stopped and gasped when he felt the man slash open his wrist. It was a deep cut. Nothing his body wouldn't heal given a few minutes, but very painful all the same. The man made no further moves to harm him. He only turned his wrist up so he could watch the blood flow. He seemed enraptured by the sight of his skin knitting back up and scabbing, but most distressing of all, he didn't seem surprised by it.

He knew what he was. Somehow he'd requested him, knowing what he was. How? Szayel didn't know. No one at the House knew… or so he thought. Confirming his suspicions, the man looked up from the bloody mess of his wrist to meet his eyes.

"Kitsune. How I've longed to find you. But to imagine a rare specimen like you in a place like this…" The man _clucked_ his tongue in disapproval. "You are wasted here."

Szayel began to struggle again, but the man only chuckled to himself and reached into his robes again. He withdrew a vial of liquid this time. The moment Szayel gave a particularly forceful yank, he let go, and the prostitute tumbled to the floor. His client swooped in, taking advantage of his momentary vulnerability to force the liquid down his throat. Szayel gagged and tried to cough it up, but it was too late. He'd already swallowed most of whatever it was. What worried him was that the man knew what he was… he knew about his invulnerability to poisons. Continued struggling would only cause it to circulate through his body faster, but not doing anything was worse. He wouldn't just submit to this man and let him do whatever he wanted. Szayel's palm shot up to break his nose.

The man blocked his attack and made a disappointed sound.

"So unruly. Really, I'm going to take you out of this place, and this is how you thank me? You should show me gratitude," he said. He continued to foil each and every one of his escape attempts patiently until Szayel was panting and exhausted. His limbs and eyelids were feeling increasingly heavy; it appeared that he'd been fed some sort of tranquilizer. Sensing that he was no longer a threat, the man grinned and hauled him to his feet.

"Are we going to cooperate now? Or do I have to discipline you later? I don't like feisty specimens."

Szayel was led over to his bed. His vision was starting to flicker in and out of focus, and he collapsed onto the mattress as soon as his client let go of him. He felt the man run an admiring hand over his body.

"I sincerely hope I won't have to medicate you like this every step of the way. But I promise that even if I have to, you'll soon learn obedience. And then you will tell me the secrets of your race." His client caressed his cheek proprietorially, then turned and left the room. Szayel lay alone on the bed with his thoughts, which progressively slowed and grew more fragmented as the drug worked on him.

This wasn't how he'd wanted to go. This wasn't how he'd wanted to leave the House. Nnoitra. He was supposed to be with Nnoitra, or else… alone. Not with this strange man who knew what he was somehow. Not… sold to him. Maybe the Mistress would refuse…? Maybe… surely he couldn't afford to buy him… Surely he was worth more than what he could afford…

-.-.-.-.-.-

Szayel was unconscious by the time the man returned for him with the Mistress. The owner of the House casually smoked a long pipe as she gazed down at her soon-to-be former ware.

"This one has caused quite a bit of trouble in his time. You certain you want him now? Not one of the other girls?" The Mistress blew a smoke ring, then took another pull of her pipe.

"He's the one I want, Madam. Don't try to talk me out of it again," he replied. Her shoulders shook as she rasped out a laugh.

"Alright. If you insist. He's your problem now, Kurotsuchi-san" The Mistress extended her hand expectantly. He placed the payment in her palm. After inspecting it, the woman nodded curtly to him and left the room.

Mayuri's eyes gleamed as he took in the sight of his newest acquisition. This one would be his most valuable purchase to date, and he had that foolish young noble to thank for this discovery. It had taken him a month to extract the information he'd needed and to divert his attention from the true cause of his poisoning, but the investment had been well worth it. His diagnosis had been correct. And though the Mistress of this whore house had driven a hard bargain, his purchase would more than pay for himself in time. When one could bottle immortality, what was a small sum of gold?

"Nemu, carry him to the cart," he ordered, quite pleased with himself. The young woman who'd been standing by at the back of the room now stepped forward to do her master's bidding.

"Yes, Mayuri-sama."

Nemu went over to the bed and picked him up. Her passive expression betrayed none of the effort it took her to lift him, just as he'd trained her.

She was such a good girl, his daughter. And by the time he was through with him, this "Shizuka" would be just as obedient.

* * *

**A/N:** And thus ends act one of Mariposa…. or it will in two more chapters. But I don't plan to write A/Ns for the next two chapters. They'll both be put out on the same day; one is a reactionary scene to this chapter, the second is a continuation of the opening scene in this chapter. Watch for them.

This chapter was edited very minimally because of NaNo. As such, the quality is a bit lower than I would have liked, but oh well. Maybe someday I'll go back and edit all these chapters and fix them up a bit.

I'm going to end this note with a short explanation regarding what happened with Grimmjow's poisoning.

The effects are faster or slower depending on how much was consumed. But Grimmjow did take enough for it to be a lethal dose fairly quickly, within a few hours. The idea is that it doesn't take much to use it as a healing agent, so it also shouldn't take much to use it as a poison. He collapsed on the way home/came down sick the same day he visited Szayel. The House is on the border between these two territories more or less.

Grimmjow probably spent about an hour with Szayel, then started to ride back home. He collapsed a little over halfway there. Maybe another hour? Two at most? So three hours for the poison to act on him at the most. The poison causes systemic failure. It behaves more like a disease than a poison, really. (My excuse? It's magical. Yeah.) There is a period during which it continues to build up in the body. The person will begin to feel increasingly toxic and ill, but not deathly ill, until a certain point when the poison begins to concentrate in organs and shut them down. It cannot penetrate the blood/brain barrier, so the brain isn't attacked, but practically everything else is being destroyed in the body. Including, if left long enough, things like muscles and skin tissues.

It's really quite a gruesome way to die, and it's nearly always fatal. When Grimmjow collapsed, that marked the beginning of systemic failure. The poison was starting its work on his organs. However, Mayuri found him at this point and began treatment. He's really the only reason why he's still alive. Sick and bed ridden, but alive.

Anyways, R&R. I'll see you all shortly. *Hugs*


	17. Un Apuesto Perdido

_Take me with you._

His last words. If he'd known that they would be the last, he might have reconsidered his actions.

Maybe. Wasn't he just a whore? An interesting distraction from his typical routine?

_Nnoitra… please._

He could have easily bought him, but it was almost a game to keep him here. Sure, he had to share him with every other sunovabitch who came along, but only superficially. Szayel understood who his master really was. They played tug of war with words and threats, but it was all meaningless. Just idle bluffing. Szayel wouldn't really leave. He knew better than to leave.

_I'll admit, it's been on my mind recently._

Thoughts were the only thing he couldn't control. Szayel was always full of ideas. His mind was always awhirl with notions Nnoitra couldn't even begin to comprehend, but when Szayel looked at him, he started to understand some of what moved him. He never could hide his thoughts when Nnoitra prodded him into writing. Szayel desperately wanted to be acknowledged by someone. His secrets spilled out onto the paper at the slightest invitation, filling it with beautiful black pen strokes and characters that spelled out his life.

He'd watched him change. He'd grown slowly but surely from a fragile, fatalistic being into some reflection of whoever he'd been before the House had its way with him. His wary, hostile gaze had morphed into a welcoming smile. And he knew it was because of him. He'd been responsible for this change. Nnoitra took a certain pride in that.

_I'm going to leave. As soon as my body allows, I'm leaving the House._

Why did he have to be so stubborn? He enjoyed that stubbornness, but at the same time, he didn't want Szayel to defy him. It wasn't his place to defy him. It was Nnoitra's right to decide whether he stayed in the House or whether he brought him home. Except now, it turned out he didn't have a choice at all.

Nnoitra slammed his fist against the counter and leaned over it to threaten the timid girl who had refused him.

"Care to repeat that?"

"S-sir, Shizuka is no longer at the House. Please… we can set you up with some other-"

"I don't want another fuckin' whore. I want him."

"Sir…"

The bouncers were eyeing him. He hoped they'd start something. It would give him an excuse to disembowel someone. But before he could decide whether he wanted to make the first move or wait for them to get cocky, the familiar figure of the Mistress appeared. She was still smoking that gaudy pipe of hers, and was still made up with layers of makeup to hide her aging complexion. She looked like one of the prostitutes she peddled.

"You. Ya fuckin' knew I'd pay for him, so why sell?"

The Mistress blew smoke across the room at him, her thin lips twisting into a yellow grin.

"If you really wanted him so bad, why didn't you buy him first? Stop threatening my girls, Nnoitra."

He sneered.

"I'll threaten whoever the fuck I want, bitch. Now who'd you sell him to?"

"Why does it matter? He's long gone, boy. You won't find him."

"Tell me who the fuck you sold him to."

She appeared to gauge how serious he was, then cackled and shook her head.

"You know, I drove up his price because I knew you'd come back for him, and he still paid it. That kid must really be worth something. I sold him to a traveling medicine seller, of all things. Man by the name of Kurotsuchi Mayuri. Funny looking guy. Must sell some damn good medicine to part so easily with that kind of money."

_Kurotsuchi Mayuri… _Nnoitra grit his teeth. So this was the name of the person who owned Szayel now.

"What direction did he head in?" he asked, ignoring her jibes.

Grimmjow would have to wait a little longer.


	18. Memorias de Guerra

The two of them fled to their parents' room. Neither consulted the other as they ran; they were operating on pure instinct as they sought out their mother. For once, no one reprimanded them for dashing through the complex like wild things. This was a state of emergency. Everyone else was busy doing the same.

When they reached their destination, they yanked open the door and nearly tripped over each other in a frantic rush. Tsukiyo was already awake and sitting upright in bed. She looked anxious as she smoothed a hand over her stomach. Crying incoherently, the two mobbed her at once and glommed onto her, refusing to let go. Only a sharp admonishment from their father- who was getting dressed – caused them to subside. Yylfordt seemed to realize that it wasn't appropriate for a future lord to cling to his mother and promptly forced himself away. She pulled him back into her arms anyways.

"Someone's attacking!"

"What are we going to do?"

"What do they want?"

"Who are they?"

They pelted her with a barrage of questions, but she was just as ignorant as they were. Lady Tsukiyo could only shake her head helplessly and hold them tighter.

"I don't know my loves. I don't know."

Someone knocked at the door, and a moment later, Madarame stepped in. He was already fully attired in military gear. He gave a curt, respectful bow to their father, then straightened to address him.

"My lord, we're mobilizing the men as quickly as we can, but the situation looks serious."

"Report."

Madarame suddenly seemed to notice that Szayel and Yylfordt were present. There was a fraction of a second where he hesitated, then his eyes hardened again and he delivered his news.

"It's the Murakami clan."

"Inari defend us…" Tsukiyo whispered softly. Szayel felt his heart jump. If it was them, they might truly need divine favor to survive this.

"… understood. Continue your preparations, Madarame. I'll be out there with you soon. Above all else, don't let morale drop," their father said. Madarame nodded and turned, striding out of the room. Szayel saw him pass Ayasegawa in the hall. He too was dressed for battle.

It was strange to see his dainty diplomacy teacher in armor. Kimonos and beautiful things suited him far better. But he didn't look completely out of place either. He wore a sword on his hip, and he carried off his militant attire with authority. There was no sign of reluctance or distaste on his face. He was absolutely serious as stepped into the room and bowed.

"My lord Iwara... If you do not need me anywhere in particular, I will be with Madarame-san organizing the men."

"No. I have a different task for you."

Ayasegawa looked up, expression betraying his surprise. Clearly, he'd come as a matter of formality.

"My lord?"

"I'm assigning you to Tsukiyo. I want you to escort her and the boys to safety. I need to know that someone capable is looking out for them."

Szayel saw his hands clench into fists at his sides, then relax as he straightened.

"Of course. I am honored, and I will keep them safe."

"Good. Any word from Kaname?"

"He's working with the ordinary servants."

"That's probably for the best."

Their father turned then, going to the closet. He was fully arrayed in his armor. To Szayel, he had always presented a figure of authority, but now even more so than ever before. He pulled out a lacquer box that held the family's heirloom katana. Szayel watched as he lifted it from the box and strapped it on after a moment of reverence. The blade was a masterpiece made by one of the legendary swordsmiths of their country. It had been many years since it had last seen use, but like any good sword, it looked as though it had never experienced the passage of time.

"Please… leave us for a moment Ayasegawa," he said. The man nodded and stepped out, closing the door after him. Lord Iwara turned to face them again.

Szayel could see there was doubt in his eyes, but stronger than that was his resolve. He was determined to defend his home and his family. He would go into battle knowing that he might not return from it, and he had made peace with that fact. But there was still one thing left.

"Tsukiyo…" Szayel heard him speak her name more tenderly than he'd ever heard him say anything. Here was a side to him that he didn't see. Here, perhaps, was an echo of the man she'd fallen in love with. Szayel let go of her as his father walked over and knelt before her, taking her hands in his. "Keep them safe. And yourself."

Lady Tsukiyo laced her fingers with his and nodded, wordless. She looked as though she were on the verge of tears. This felt too much like a final farewell than a temporary parting, and indeed, when he reached into his clothes to pull out a necklace with a large, luminous pearl on the end, his mother did start crying.

"No… no… please, keep it. I gave it to you," she murmured, shaking her head. Lord Iwara slipped it over her head anyways.

"Give it back to me later," he said, then kissed her. They embraced for a long moment, but time was growing scarce. Reluctantly, the pair disentangled, and he turned to address them.

"Listen to everything your mother says, you hear? Don't cause her trouble."

He was back to being stern again, but Szayel knew better now. It was the responsibility of leading a household that led him to project a strict and unyielding image. As he swept out of the room, Szayel prayed for him. He wanted to know this man he called father better. He wanted him to be ok.

Ayasegawa stepped back in the moment Lord Iwara stepped out.

"Please hurry Lady Tsukiyo. We need to get out quickly," he said. His tone was civil, but undercut with a sense of urgency. If their forces were overwhelmed, and they were trapped inside the complex… then death was certain. No one wanted to contemplate that scenario, but in the light of battle, it was a possibility.

Tsukiyo wiped away her tears and hid the necklace in her robes. She rose to her feet unsteadily.

"Yes… yes, I'm hurrying, Yumichika."

Ayasegawa helped her into her shoes, then towed her out of the room as soon as she was ready. Szayel and Yylfordt trailed behind. Their pace was faster than walking, but still short of running. Tsukiyo wasn't able to move very quickly so far into her pregnancy.

Szayel felt his apprehension spike again. At this pace, even if they slipped out undetected, it was possible they'd be spotted before they could get very far. He could tell that this was Ayasegawa's concern as well, for he seemed to become increasingly anxious as they raced through the house. By the time they reached one of the servant's exits, she was already out of breath. Sweat streamed down her face, and she leaned against Ayasegawa for support.

He allowed her a moment's respite, but they had to keep moving. They weren't safe yet. The sounds of battle were drawing ever closer, and they were still within the house.

"We're going to have to sprint, my lady," Ayasegawa informed her. She looked ill, but nodded.

"Wait a moment first…"

Lady Tsukiyo closed her eyes and inhaled. Szayel felt a pull as she warped the spiritual energy around them. Yylfordt and Ayasegawa both sensed the sudden shift as well, and he saw them startle.

"Lady Tsukiyo, what-"

"I'm making us invisible, Yumichika. Question me later, now's not the time."

Tsukiyo straightened, looking determined. But Szayel knew how taxing magic was on her at this point, and to make them all invisible after she'd exhausted herself earlier that evening? She was overextending herself. But he didn't have time to worry about her, because a moment later, Ayasegawa was pulling all of them into a mad sprint towards the stables.

The Murakami forces were closing in. Slowly but surely, they appeared to be ringing the complex. During the day, it would have been one matter to keep track of the enemy's movement, but at night, it was an entirely different playing field. Szayel spotted an archer crouched in the grass a ways in the distance, watching for people attempting to do exactly what they were doing. If Tsukiyo hadn't made them all invisible, it was very likely they would have been shot by now.

They weren't without their problems, however. Tsukiyo finally collapsed just ten meters short of the stables, unable to continue running. Ayasegawa scooped her up into his arms and carried her the rest of the way, but her spell had faltered. They were once again visible. Their sudden appearance drew attention from a group of soldiers headed towards the building.

Ayasegawa set Tsukiyo down inside and drew his sword.

"You two, get her over to a horse."

There was one left. The rest were in use on the battlefield. It was no coincidence. The Lord wouldn't leave his pregnant wife without a means to escape. Szayel and Yylfordt supported her as they stumbled over to the remaining beast. It was skittery and on edge from the hubbub, but they calmed it down long enough to help Tsukiyo up. Szayel climbed up after her, and Yylfordt took the rear.

Steel screeched on steel at the stable entrance. Ayasegawa was engaged in combat, using the narrow parameters of the door way to thin his opponents. Szayel watched his teacher slip past the guard of the man he was fighting, and with a swipe of his sword, the man's head went flying. Ayasegawa's face was twisted into an ugly expression as he fought. It didn't fit him. He shouldn't be here, fighting for his life and theirs, yet he was. And Szayel knew in that moment that they were leaving him behind. They had no choice.

Ayasegawa Yumichika knew as well. He'd always known. The man cleared the way for them valiantly. Somehow, he managed to look graceful while severing limbs, but he couldn't hide that he was tiring. A skilled swordsman he might be, but he hadn't picked up a blade in years. The moment he cut down his final opponent, he leapt out of the way and yelled at them to go. More would be coming soon. It was now or never. Szayel felt the air around them warp again as Tsukiyo pulled them back into invisibility and urged the horse forward. They flew out of the stable at a full gallop, charging past his old teacher and into the night. Tsukiyo turned the beast towards the woods where they could disappear. She couldn't keep up the invisibility spell forever.

Their route gave them a good view of the battlefield, and what they saw was not encouraging. His mother turned away after a moment, unwilling to accept the truth of the situation, and urged the horse forward. When they finally reached the trees, Tsukiyo slowed down to navigate the woods, but he could tell that she did so with the utmost reluctance. This wasn't where she wanted to be. She didn't want to linger here any longer than she had to.

She was trembling and pale. Where her hair touched her skin, it clung to it, damp with perspiration. The night was taking its toll on her. Still, she urged the horse they rode deeper into the woods where they would finally be lost from sight and she could let the spell she was barely holding onto slip.

But it wasn't to be. The woods were occupied. After they spotted the third soldier patrolling, Tsukiyo pulled the horse aside and dismounted. She fell to her knees, tears trickling down her cheeks in frustration.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry, I cannot protect you," she whispered. She was reaching the end of her wits. Panic was starting to set in. Everywhere they turned, they were cornered. Yylfordt and Szayel knelt with her, trying to comfort her.

"Mama… it's ok. But we have to keep going," Szayel murmured. Yylfordt nodded in agreement.

"I cannot hide us any longer. I cannot keep us invisible. I don't have the strength." She was weeping openly now. The thin veneer of magic that kept them concealed wavered.

"Mama… please. Isn't there something you can do? Can't you revert to your kitsune form? Would that help? Would that free up some energy?" There had to be some way. They couldn't die here. He couldn't bear the thought of her dying.

Tsukiyo shuddered and swiped at her eyes. Szayel felt the magic waver again… then stabilize with her resolve.

"Yes… yes, I could do that. It would give me enough energy, perhaps…"

Szayel felt his spirits lift slightly. They would be ok. Maybe… everything else was going to hell, but they still had a chance. They'd be alright. Then Tsukiyo looked up and met his eyes.

He saw reflected in them a great and terrible sadness.

"But only for two."

Just two.

He felt the breath leave his lungs.

"Szayel… my heart, my kit, my little butterfly…"

No. _No… please don't leave me…_

"I'm sorry. If I had another choice, I wouldn't do this…"

_No…. no… _

"I love you. I love you with all my heart."

"Then why are you leaving me?" he cried. Why him? Tsukiyo flinched, then pulled him into her arms and hugged him fiercely.

"Because your brother is the heir. Because I swore to your father when I married into his family that I would put the security of his home and bloodline above my own desires."

He took little solace from her embrace, only continued to cry bitterly. She tried to soothe him, but time was running out, and she couldn't afford to sit and hold him for much longer. Tsukiyo placed a hand over his mouth and kissed his forehead. It was a lingering kiss, one filled with regret as she pulled away.

"Shh, my darling… I won't leave you completely unprotected. I will give you a minute of invisibility once I leave, and you must hide. You must run and hide and live… and as soon as I can, I will return for you. I will find you.

But just in case you are caught, I will give you one more protection. I will place a curse on you to make you mute, so that if you are questioned, they won't be able to torture information out of you. Pass yourself off as a servant. Do whatever you have to do to survive. Just live, Szayel. As long as you and I both live, I will never stop trying to find you."

"Mama…." He pleaded with her, imploring her to reconsider what she was about to do. But he knew she wouldn't. She'd made up her mind.

"I love you Szayel. Forever and always," she said.

And then she touched his throat. He felt something spark from her fingertips and sear through his vocal cords. When the burning passed, he was left with a strange heaviness that seemed to curl up in his throat and stick there. Frightened, Szayel tried to speak, but felt the curse constrict his voice. While he came to terms with his new impediment, Tsukiyo slapped the horse's rump to get it running. He felt the spell drop from the beast as it became visible and charged away from them.

"A decoy, Szayel. Make use of the time it gives you," she said, casting him one final, tragic look. Then his mother's form rippled and shrank then as she became a fox. She yipped at Yylfordt who was still just kneeling there, looking at a loss for words. He rose to his feet hastily as she set off. But he hesitated for a moment, looking back at Szayel. Their eyes met. Yylfordt looked away, unable to hold his gaze. The last expression Szayel saw on his face was one of guilt.

Then he was running, catching up to Tsukiyo, and Szayel was alone. He stared after them for a moment, watching them disappear into the woods before he realized that he only had one minute's worth of security. Less now. He had seconds to work with.

Szayel ran. There wasn't time to feel lonely or betrayed. All thoughts fled his mind, replaced by pure instinct as he sprinted blindly through the trees. Branches scratched his cheeks and ripped at his clothes, but he didn't notice these. It was only when the initial adrenaline rush wore off that he slowed and started to work through his situation more logically. He couldn't just tear through the forest like a senseless animal. He had to start thinking. Where could run? Nowhere. They'd find him wherever he ran. His best hope was to hide, but where? In a tree? He couldn't climb that high. He'd never learned how to climb trees.

He almost panicked again when he felt the invisibility slip from him. He was vulnerable now. If there was anyone nearby, they'd spot him and catch him and- Szayel gasped and stumbled, feeling sick as his mind provided him with a gruesome image of his own mangled, headless body. No. No no no. He wouldn't think about that. He would find somewhere to hide. He would live… He had to. He had to…

Distracted by his own thoughts, Szayel tripped over a tree root. With a small cry of surprise, he pitched forwards and landed face first. Szayel lay there for a moment, feeling despair overwhelm him and tasting dirt on his tongue. His lungs were burning. His legs were tired. His clothes were torn. His face and arms stung where he'd been scratched by tree branches. His hair had come undone and now flared around his head wildly, gathering twigs and leaves from the forest floor.

What was the point? His mother had abandoned him. His father was probably dead. Everyone was probably dead. Ayasegawa… Madarame… Kaname… and now him. He'd be next.

… except he didn't want that. Every part of him ached, his heart most of all, but he didn't want that. The drive to live surpassed everything else. His pulse fluttered as he forced himself to rise, ignoring the way his muscles protested…

And then he saw it. A hollow at the base of the tree whose root he'd tripped over. Szayel stared at it, eyes wide with incredulity. Then he scrambled towards the hole to investigate. Hoping. Praying to any merciful god that might be watching that it was deep enough for him to hide in. And it was. Barely, but it was. Exhausted beyond belief, Szayel crawled into what turned out to be an abandoned fox den and curled up. He pulled a little curtain of brush over his hiding place, then settled in to wait the night out. Despite the fear that caused him to jolt at the slightest noise, and the anxious thoughts that turned over and over in his mind, he somehow managed to fall asleep against all odds.

-.-.-.-.-.-

His dreams were far from peaceful. He relived the whole, nightmarish experience over and over and over again, with each retelling becoming more vivid and awful. When he finally woke, it was to the image of his mother abandoning him and the sound of sniffling and rustling.

Szayel tensed. Something was moving in the bushes. Not only that, but he heard voices. People. The boy squirmed and forced himself deeper into his burrow, hoping that whoever it was passed him by.

A nose suddenly poked through the screen of leaves he'd pulled over the entrance to his hiding place. Then the rest of the dog's face followed. It inspected him quizzically, clearly not having expected to find a young boy hiding in a fox den.

Szayel felt his heart stop as he heard footsteps approaching and the voices coming closer.

"Think she found something..."

"What? That little hole? She probably found an animal."

"Nah. She'd be barking her head off if she'd found an animal."

The dog in question pulled her head out of the hollow and barked once to her masters as they approached. A moment later, Szayel saw a human face peering down at him. The man's eyes widened in surprise.

"No shit, we've got a live one."

The man reached in to grab his arm, and Szayel lashed out the only way he could. He bit his hand. Muffled cursing followed as the man yanked his arm out of the hole.

"Fucking bit me!"

"Haha, that's what you get for being impatient."

"Yeah? Well you can coax the little beast out of its hole. Be my guest."

"Watch and learn."

A new face appeared at the entrance, this one grinning.

"Hey. Come out now if you don't want to die. You've got ten seconds before I stab you."

Szayel narrowed his eyes at him as he retreated. A moment later, he heard the man start his count down.

"Ten, nine, eight…"

…. What should he do?

"Seven, six, five…."

If… if he came out, there was the chance they'd kill him. But if he stayed, it was certain that they would.

"Four, three, two…"

Szayel crawled out of his hiding place.

The man who'd blackmailed him into coming out grinned wider and elbowed his companion.

"And that's how you do it."

"Shut up, Reizou. Now grab the little bitch and let's go."

Reizou rolled his eyes and pulled out a length of cord from his pack. Szayel tensed, preparing to flee, but his muscles chose that moment to lock up. He wouldn't be running anywhere. His body was still recovering from the previous evening. When the soldier came to tie his hands behind his back, he offered no resistance. Perhaps if he cooperated, they'd be less liable to kill him.

Reizou not only tied his hands, he also looped a makeshift leash around his throat. It was in this way that he was led back to what remained of his home. The soldiers questioned him along the way, but soon figured out that he was kept his eyes lowered the whole way. It was only when they walked past the battlefield, with its dismembered corpses and stench of death, that he looked to the sky and lost himself in the blue expanse. Such a beautiful blue. Such an impossible blue. It seemed like a mockery of what had happened that the sun would be shining on a day such as this.

Tsukiyo's curse had saved him, just as his sacrifice had saved her. Unable to extract anything from him, they assumed that he was the child of one of the vassals that had died fighting the invading force the night before. And they made one other error. They assumed he was female based on his delicate looks. It wasn't until after the servants were divided up and sold off that anyone discovered otherwise. Stripped naked and standing before the Mistress of the whorehouse that had bought him, he had his first taste of the life that would be his for the next eight years.

She named him Shizuka.


	19. Obediencia

When Szayel woke, everything was foreign. He couldn't hold onto a thought for more than a few seconds at a time; his head felt fuzzy, and there was a dull ache at the base of his skull that throbbed in time with his pulse. Of the few things that stood out to him, the first was the feeling of motion. Every so often, the floor would shudder and jolt unpleasantly. The other details that made themselves known were the feel of wood against his cheek, the clink of glass against glass, and the pungent scent of medicinal herbs. He gradually pieced together in his muddled state that he was in some sort of enclosed cart. After that, things started to come together more quickly.

He was no longer in the House. He'd just been bought by a man that knew what he was. The man had drugged him with something. Obviously he knew something about medicine. Perhaps he was even a medicine seller. That would explain why the cart was thick with the smell of them.

Szayel groaned and willed the throbbing to subside. It must have been a very concentrated dose for it to affect him like this. The man hadn't been willing to take any chances. He'd been successful. Szayel felt too sick to do anything more than lie there and wait for his mind to clear. It might help if the cart weren't so stuffy. The smell of herbs was overpowering and made the enclosed space feel claustrophobic, like he was suffocating.

He had no idea how much time had elapsed since he'd slipped into unconsciousness. The passage of time was difficult to mark even in his current state of awareness. He was completely detached from the outside world; the only clock he had was his own internal clock, but his headache and disorientation played havoc on his senses. When the cart finally rumbled to a halt after some indeterminable stretch of time, Szayel closed his eyes and tried to mentally prepare himself for the coming confrontation with his buyer.

It was every bit as unpleasant as he'd expected it to be. There was a creak as the doors to the cart were opened. Szayel squinted and shielded his eyes from the light that filtered in. Seeing that he was awake, the man grinned.

"I imagine you aren't feeling too well, kitsune. Understand that from now on, it is up to you to determine how you will be treated."

Kitsune… he couldn't even call him by the name the House had given him. He didn't care for who he was; this would be a strictly business relationship.

"You'll find writing supplies in the box to your left. Bring it with you when you come out, and do hurry."

He retreated, allowing Szayel a moment of privacy, though he could hear him pacing just outside. Szayel grimaced, not looking forward to speaking with this man, but he reached for the box that he'd indicated and brought it with him as he crawled out of the cart. He didn't have long to take in his surroundings before the man gestured that he should set up to begin writing, but the position of the sun indicated that it was early evening. He'd been out for a whole day.

"I am Kurotsuchi Mayuri. Officially, my profession is that of a traveling medicine seller, but I don't peddle ordinary drugs. I specialize in… unconventional cures. You could say I have an interest in the unusual."

An introduction. He didn't seem the type to introduce himself to just anyone. Szayel supposed he was receiving special treatment because he was one of his so called unusual interests. Indeed, the conversation bridged just that topic a moment later.

"And you are certainly unusual. Youkai are such fascinating beings. In my travels, I've had the opportunity to study countless types, but this is the first time I've been able to acquire a kitsune.

_How did you know what I was? How did you find me? _

"Tch tch. I'll be the one asking questions, youkai."

_Then ask. I tire of dancing around my purpose here._

Mayuri fell silent for a moment as he read his words. When he looked up, he seemed amused.

"It seems we share an ideology. We can jump straight to the point if you prefer, kitsune. But drop the authoritative tone. I am the only one who wields authority here."

His expression was playful. There was a strange incongruity between his body language and the message in his words. Nonetheless, Szayel got the distinct impression that he was capable of very unpleasant things, and he would do well to not upset him. Seeing his hesitation, Mayuri's demeanor seemed to brighten again.

"I'll lay out my expectations then. What I want from you is three things; your blood- willingly and free of taint -your knowledge, and your absolute loyalty. None of these terms are negotiable. In return, you can expect to be fed, clothed, and treated with a degree of respect. Should you fail to adhere to my conditions, you will be treated like an insubordinate child and disciplined appropriately. Any questions?"

… his blood, his knowledge… in time, Mayuri could probably extract both from him. But his loyalty? He would never be loyal to this man.

_Your terms do not seem equal._

"We aren't equals, youkai. Whatever gave you that impression? You're lucky that you're valuable enough to me to keep alive. I can't say the same for most of my past subjects."

_You… you killed them?_

"Knowledge requires sacrifices. So does my trade. It isn't any different from harvesting a plant. In the end, both are dying."

_But living, sentient beings. How is that not different?_

Mayuri shot him a patronizing smile.

"And how does sentience give one thing more worth than another? What about gold? I was able to buy your life with it. Does that make it more valuable? It's all subjective, kitsune. To me, my research is worth more than any number of lives."

Szayel felt a chill run through him. This was the man who had bought him. This was the man whose mercy he relied on to live… and he was perfectly merciless.

_Hypothetically… if I were to defy you, what would you do to me?_

"Hm…" Mayuri looked thoughtful, "That depends. Were you thinking about it?"

_I was merely curious._

"I can answer that curiosity if you'd like."

Szayel swallowed. This conversation wasn't headed in a good direction.

_There is no need. I'll trust that it isn't something I'd want to risk._

"But that's no good. You're still thinking in terms of risk, kitsune. You're still considering the idea of defying me," Mayuri said. His voice was so light, so mischievous. This was all a game to him. He'd never intended to let Szayel off easy. There was always just one path that he was steadily shepherding him down.

He wanted Szayel to resist so he could break him and mold him into what he wanted. If Szayel didn't openly resist, he'd manufacture an excuse.

_… you said you only wanted three things. My blood, my knowledge, my loyalty…_

"I didn't lie, if that's what you're implying."

_Then why do this? _

"I'm ensuring that the last term is met to my satisfaction. If our definitions of absolute loyalty differ, that's a matter of perspective."

He'd escaped the House… for what? A worse situation than he'd been in. At least there, he'd gotten used to the way things worked. Those first, nightmarish years were in the past. There was nothing worse that could be done to him. But now he had a whole new "training" regimen to endure. It wasn't enough that his individuality had been crushed once. Mayuri would ensure that it was completely obliterated.

_Do you want me to rebel? Is that what you want? Do you want me to resist you so that you can break me down and feel that you've accomplished something?_ His hand shook as he wrote. Just the thought of what was coming gave him a little jolt of adrenaline.

"Are you deaf as well as mute? I don't want you to rebel. I want you to understand our relationship intrinsically. There should be no doubt in your mind as to your place."

There was nothing more he could say. There was no argument he could make. Szayel set down his brush and turned to face Mayuri stiffly. If there was no way he could avoid this, then he didn't want to take it lying down. Perhaps it was futile, just as it had been futile to fight against the House. He would probably just hurt himself even more by struggling. But if he didn't make some effort… if he didn't even try, then what was the point? Who was he if he didn't fight for his own identity?

Mayuri understood. He seemed neither upset nor pleased. It seemed, instead, that he'd expected this outcome.

"Are you going to be able to fulfill these terms?"

Szayel shook his head.

"Pity," he said, "Nemu, please fetch my materials."

"Yes, Mayuri-sama," came the voice of a young woman. Szayel turned to watch as a girl with black hair and green eyes appeared from the front of the cart. He hadn't seen her before, but she seemed quite familiar with Mayuri's setup. In moments, she'd retrieved a small trunk from the cart. She brought this over to Mayuri and set it at his feet, then knelt to unlock it.

Her movements were so methodical and listless. She seemed more like a doll than an actual person. He wondered if Mayuri had trained her too, if _that_ was his idea of absolute loyalty. Szayel found himself instinctively edging away.

"Don't move, kitsune. The more you fight me, the more unpleasant things will be for you."

Szayel froze. Then he scowled. Why should he stay and wait to be disciplined? As Mayuri bent to select his tools, Szayel quickly undid his kimono and stripped down to a slip. Then he ran.

It was a familiar feeling. He'd been running all his life, in one way or another. Running from his past, running from his future, running from both physical threats and psychological ones. He ran because he wanted to survive, because he wanted to save himself. But he always failed. His running never got him anywhere, and this time was no exception either. His lungs began to burn as he pushed them beyond anything he'd done in years, but it still wasn't enough. He had perhaps ten seconds of freedom as he raced away, then he felt someone tackle him to the ground. He landed in an ungainly heap with a pained yelp.

As the woman named Nemu pinned him in a surprisingly strong hold, Mayuri wandered over to watch him squirm. Szayel managed to get his face out of the dirt long enough to look up at him. He saw that his expression was one of mild disappointment.

"I told you not to move."

Szayel bared his teeth at him, caring little for decorum by this point. He continued to struggle until he felt his face shoved into the ground again and breathing became very difficult. When he finally subsided- mostly because he was running out of air –Nemu let up on him again. At Mayuri's order, she hauled him to his feet and marched him back over to the box of "materials," which Mayuri resumed rummaging through. Szayel watched him wearily while Nemu kept a steady grip on his neck just in case he had it in his mind to make another bid for escape. It didn't take the other man long to make up his mind this time, for he soon straightened.

In his hand was a surgical knife.

"Nemu, hold him down again."

The young woman wrestled him to the ground again, though this time, he was on his back. When he felt Mayuri reach for one of his legs, he tried to kick it away, only to have the knife plunged into it in swift reprimand. Szayel screamed and kept on screaming as the knife was ripped out, even if his voice was cut off by the curse. He felt Mayuri lift his injured leg, then a sharp slice as he cut through the muscles just above the back of his knee. As the man repeated the procedure on his other leg, he explained his actions in a calm tone.

"You will recover from this because of your blood, but for now, this should be enough of a deterrence to prevent you from running. I hope that by the time you are able to walk again, you will be more amenable to my vision for you."

Szayel whimpered as Mayuri dropped his second leg, but he wasn't done quite yet. Szayel felt the knife dig into the bottom of his foot, cutting so deep as to scrape the bone itself. Again, the action was mirrored on his other foot. Again, Szayel screamed silently.

"Bear in mind that the next time you kick me, you will lose the foot that makes contact. Do you understand me, kitsune?" Mayuri asked.

Szayel gave a jerky nod.

Mayuri smiled and wiped his bloody knife on Szayel's slip, then set it in the box. Szayel had hoped he was finished, but instead, he walked back over to the cart to fetch something from it. When he reemerged, he had a syringe and a vial of inky fluid. Szayel watched him take some of it up into the syringe. He handled both with the utmost care, making sure not to get any of it on his fingers as he recapped the vial.

Nemu still had him pinned, but on Mayuri's request, she released one of his arms. Szayel quelled the instinct to lash out again, knowing it would probably earn him the loss of a hand, and he couldn't bear the thought of that. Losing his hand was permanent. This new torture… whatever it was… it would pass. He would survive. Mayuri grabbed his arm, turning it over to inject whatever drug the syringe held… but at the last moment, he paused.

"How careless of me."

Mayuri retreated, and a moment later, he was pressing a cylinder of wood between his teeth.

"Wouldn't want you biting off your tongue and choking to death on it," he remarked, then slid the needle into his arm.

The effect was near instantaneous. Szayel's eyes rolled back in his head as what felt like acid shot through his veins from the puncture site, and the need for the cylinder to bite down on quickly became apparent. Nemu continued to hold him down until he began to convulse, at which point she stood and left him to writhe and garble agonized sounds on his own. He wasn't a danger to anyone but himself. Mayuri took the opportunity to explain what it was he'd injected him with, though he barely had the attention span for it.

"Venom from a Tsuchinoko. Because it comes from a Youkai, it is much more potent than anything you've ever experienced, though your blood should still nullify it. But not before it…"

Mayuri's words cut off as his mind shut down to concentrate entirely on his poisoning. It felt like the venom was eating through his body, corroding his veins and arteries as it passed through them. Szayel imagined a dark serpent winding its way through his body, curling around his heart and squeezing… pain… panic… He could practically see the fluttering organ straining against the black coils that bound it, just beyond the reach of his fingertips…

The serpent turned its head and looked at him, tongue flickering out to taste the air. Its eyes were gold like his. Like Mayuri's. As he gazed at the serpent in surprise, he saw its mouth stretch into a wide, wide smile. Its fangs glimmered with drops of iridescent black venom. Then it lunged for him. Szayel screamed and thrashed as he felt it sink those fangs into his throat. He reached up to claw at his neck, trying to dislodge it, but it only wrapped around his body. Hot. It felt so hot. Szayel closed his eyes. The coils burned him everywhere they touched. His throat… his chest… his thighs… his…

_Ungh…_

There was a weight on him again, then the feel of something invading him. Szayel's eyes flew open to find Grimmjow gripping his thighs and spreading them as he forced himself on him. He was grinning just as widely as the serpent had been, canines shining as he flashed his teeth at him. His hips rocked painfully as Grimmjow drove into him, the act completely devoid of any pleasure. But even as he watched, the man began to transform. His ears changed shape, elongating and growing fur, his fingernails lengthened into sharp tipped claws, and those flashing white teeth became rows of fangs. As his pupils narrowed to vertical slits, Grimmjow gave a feral yowl and pulled out, pouncing on him to rip open his chest. Szayel felt his claws slice through skin and muscle, and he cried out in terror as he tried to push the man turned monster off of him, only to watch him bite through his wrist…

Bones snapped. Szayel teetered on a faint as the thing shook his wrist in its mouth and almost ripped it off. Then the weight was gone. Grimmjow was gone. He sobbed in relief, but the pain in his chest brought his attention back to the wounds he'd received. Szayel stared down in shock, then horror at the sight of his exposed ribs. But most chilling of all, his heart was missing. Torn out.

_Thump __**thump**__ thump __**thump**_

He could still hear it beating. The sound of it filled his mind, repeating over and over again.

But he could also still feel it, slowly being squeezed into oblivion. He clutched the place where it had been, drifting in and out to the sound of his heart beat and the pain that continued to lance through him. The world seemed to pulse with it, warping until a new figure formed. A familiar figure with black hair and dark eyes. He smiled down at him with the same, eerie grin that Grimmjow and the serpent had smiled. Then he held out his hand. Szayel saw his heart clutched in his pale, spidery fingers. Blood dripped from the organ as he continued to squeeze it mercilessly until every drop was wrung from it. Then, still smiling, he raised it to his mouth…

.

Mayuri watched his newest subject go limp as he finally succumbed to whatever psychological torment he was experiencing. After several minutes of writhing, vivid hallucinations, self-mutilation, and terrified crying, the kitsune had finally fallen into unconsciousness.

"Keep an eye on him while I'm gone, Nemu. See to it that he doesn't suffocate if he starts vomiting. There are certain plants in this region I want to collect," Mayuri said as he rose from his cross legged position.

"Yes, Mayuri-sama. Do you have an idea of when you will return?"

"As long as it takes me."

He offered the Youkai a final glance, then left to gather his equipment. When the young kitsune regained his senses, this wasn't a lesson he'd soon forget.

* * *

**A/N:** Hm, sorry this took so long to get up guys. I really did want to finish NaNo this year, but when I hit this chapter, I just couldn't bear to write another miserable scene. So I took a break from angst, and now I'm back in the writing game. I've decided that I will try to finish writing the 30k or so words I still owe this month.

The Tsuchinoko, which was briefly mentioned, is a type of serpent Youkai. It is described as a fat serpent that can occasionally talk- and when it does, it is a habitual liar -and has a taste for alcohol. In my headcanon, Mayuri got one drunk, then milked the venom from it veeeery carefully. Or actually, he probably had Nemu do it. As for the venom itself, it is compared to that of a viper, but I decided to make my adaptation of the Tsuchinoko have a very potent magical venom that would kill an ordinary person quickly. If you survive the bite, you'll still suffer the equivalent of a very bad trip.

Hehe, if I botched that scene, my apologies. And yes. If it wasn't clear earlier, I am a cruel cruel bitch to my favorite characters. Honestly guys, go read some fluff after this. Or something. Sometimes I worry about if I'm depressing my readership.

Enjoy the update. I'll get back to you guys when I can. Ciao!

Edit: Excuse the upload kerfluffle if you caught it x_x


	20. Deterioro

"Bleed."

A single word. He was given a knife, a glass vial, and an expectant look. Szayel stared down at the instruments in his hands and tried to regard them with anything other than numbness.

His time with Kurotsuchi Mayuri hadn't been easy. There were days when he lost all sense of himself, when everything was a haze of drugs and nightmares and pain. He felt like he was slipping, bit by bit. When he couldn't always trust that what he was experiencing was reality, he clung to the little regularity his new master offered. It was a simple ritual, but one that held constant. At one point during the day, if Szayel was conscious enough to respond, he would ask him to offer up his blood willingly. And every day, Szayel refused. He'd lost track of how many times he'd refused him. It had become automatic by this point. Ingrained, just like the image of Mayuri shaking his head and opening up his box.

_Kitsune… kitsune… kitsune… Whenever will you learn?_

_ You can choose. It's up to you how much pain you must endure._

_ Bleed…_

And if he did? What would happen? He was almost terrified to find out. What would change? How would he be able to tell reality from the drug induced hallucinations? But even these moments were taking on a dreamlike quality now. He was caught in a cycle of déjà vu that filled him with a sense of angst. Repeating yesterday's hackneyed response… reliving the same moment over and over again… even the regularity he depended on was beginning to eat away at his sanity.

Szayel's fingers wrapped around the knife handle. Moving slowly, he pressed the blade against his wrist, then drew it across the skin. He watched, transfixed, as crimson trailed after the metal. Then the sharp sting registered, and he blinked.

Szayel stopped. He'd done it. He'd actually ceded to Mayuri's request. Not completely. He still had to tip the blood into the vial, but it was more than he'd ever done before. He watched the cut until it stopped bleeding and began to scab over, then glanced up at the man who sat across from him. Mayuri gazed back dispassionately, waiting.

Szayel's eyes flickered back down to the cut. He could open another easily. Give him what he wanted; the precious blood that had led to his current persecution. If he spilled it now, he could end part of that persecution. But now that he was actually on the cusp of that decision, he shied away from it. Inari had made his blood both a poison and a healing agent to protect kitsune from those who would kill them for it. Somehow, it seemed wrong to betray this heritage. He couldn't justify selling his pride for a moment's reprieve. Not yet, anyways.

The kitsune set down the knife and vial he held, then shook his head. They would have this confrontation again tomorrow or the next day.

There was a moment of silence as Mayuri regarded him. Something in his expression had shifted. When he reached across to collect the instruments he'd passed him, he seemed to do so with reluctance rather than his usual indifference.

"You dread what I do to you, yet you persist in your resistance. Why is it that you remain so stubborn?"

Szayel lowered his head and shrugged, knowing what came next. He raised his arms preemptively, exposing the ugly, yellow bruises that riddled the insides of his elbows. Another would soon join his collection with Mayuri's next injection.

"And yet you're perfectly obedient now when it comes to receiving your punishments. I have to wonder sometimes if I'm making any progress," the man commented as he selected one of his arms. There was a pinch as the needle slid under his skin, then coolness as something was injected. Szayel closed his eyes and waited for the effects of whatever drug he'd been shot up with to manifest.

To his surprise, Mayuri didn't linger to watch. Szayel heard him rise and walk away, leaving him to deal with the effects on his own. Szayel hugged himself and tried to concentrate on maintaining control of himself for as long as possible. Strangely enough, it wasn't hard. He only began to feel a little warmer than usual, but that was all. Then Mayuri returned. He heard his footsteps a few moments before the man hauled him to his feet. Szayel opened his eyes and stumbled after him, eyes going to the futon roll he carried under his right arm.

"It seems I have to change my tactics. You're becoming a little too accustomed to our current routine. It's a tribute to your resilience that you haven't broken yet, but inconvenient for me."

Mayuri let go of him for a moment, pausing to unroll the futon, then pulled Szayel down after him. This was new. Szayel's eyes widened as he felt Mayuri's hand slide up his thigh. The man had never made any sexual advances towards him before now. It was so sudden, he wasn't sure what to make of this development. But more surprising was the way his body reacted. He was hypersensitive to the feel of his hands; every place Mayuri touched seemed to stir and superheat moments later. Well, he knew now what he'd been injected with. But why?

Why this?

For once, Mayuri didn't bother to explain. There was no preamble, no monologue describing how this would inevitably undermine his will or sanity or both. Just action.

He was methodical. It was different from most everyone else he'd ever been with. Foreplay had an oddly detached quality; there was a lack of passion or lust. But he lacked in emotion, he made up for with precision and skill. Even without the aphrodisiac, he would have been affected. With it, it was almost more than he could take. Within minutes, Mayuri seemed to know his body as intimately as Szayel himself knew it, and he exploited each little weakness until Szayel was flushed and trembling with need beneath him. He didn't even care then that Mayuri's actions seemed to make no sense, that there was no true desire for him. At that moment, he was only concerned with his own pleasure.

-.-.-.-.-.-

He spent a lot of time dwelling on Kurotsuchi Mayuri, when he wasn't otherwise drugged out of his mind. It was inevitable seeing as his only other company was the man's daughter, and she was the most taciturn woman he'd ever encountered. He avoided interacting with her in general. She unnerved him; her deep, green eyes seemed dead, devoid of any spark of life or personality, and he was afraid that this was what Mayuri intended to turn him into as well. Though his own sense of self was slowly deteriorating, and the world around him became increasingly strange and unfamiliar, he couldn't shake that fear. He wasn't sure what he was hoping for, but the dread, the fear kept him going.

It wasn't even regularity anymore. Mayuri had destroyed that. That was what the sex was for, he was fairly certain now. Szayel had been falling into a routine, a routine that both caused him anxiety and gave him strength. Mayuri varied his schedule now. Some days, he'd be subjected to the nightmare drugs. Some days, he'd lose himself in an aphrodisiac haze. And some days… there would be absolutely nothing.

Those were the most unnerving of all- the days when he was perfectly lucid. They were a relatively new development. He didn't know how much time he'd spent with the travelling medicine seller, but from the changing weather, he estimated several months. After Mayuri's usual morning petition for blood, sometimes they'd continue on their way. Mayuri would sit on top of the cart while Nemu pulled it, and Szayel would trail behind on foot, lost in his thoughts and not quite certain what to do with them.

At first he'd fantasize about escape, but the countryside was unfamiliar to him. Mayuri sedated him whenever they stopped by a village or did business with a customer so he couldn't gain his bearings. Then his thoughts shifted to the House, to the other girls and his years of service… to Nnoitra. He'd think of Nnoitra and wonder if Nnoitra ever thought of him. Or had he moved on? He seemed so possessive, but it had been so long… Would he still consider Szayel his, even when months had passed and the chances that he'd see him again dwindled ever smaller?

Then finally, his thoughts shifted to Mayuri- his source of torment, but as of more recently, a source of… companionship. He was loathe to consider it, but with not much else to think of, it was a recurrent train of thought he couldn't ignore. It was perfectly clear to him that Mayuri considered himself his superior. Why wouldn't he? He didn't consider anyone to be an equal, given his disregard for everything that did not contribute to his research. He owned Szayel. There was absolutely no reason for him to treat him with respect, aside from the cursory amount diplomacy required. If he wanted his blood, he had to wait for Szayel to give it willingly, else it would be useless.

That was one thing he still hadn't managed. Mayuri still hadn't succeeded in acquiring that. Oh, there had been many close calls after the first one. There were many moments when he'd nearly given in to the temptation. But at the last minute, fear would hold him back from tilting his wrist and offering it willingly- fear and shame. Szayel could tell it frustrated the medicine seller. He was used to getting what he wanted, to breaking down his subjects quickly. Still, Mayuri was patient. Frightfully so.

"Nemu, stop the cart. We'll camp here."

"Yes, Mayuri-sama."

The medicine cart rumbled to a stop, and Mayuri clambered down from his perch to stretch his legs. Then, opening the cart, he pulled out a cask of water to drink from. Nemu waited patiently for him to finish before reaching for it. Though her bangs clung to her cheeks and her pale skin was flushed with exertion, she made no indication that she was exhausted, despite having pulled the cart for several hours without break.

Mayuri wiped his mouth as he turned to face Szayel. Their eyes locked for a moment, then the medicine seller cracked a smile and sauntered over to him.

"Are you thirsty, kitsune?"

Szayel nodded after a moment's hesitation. Mayuri never asked anything frivolously.

"I'm afraid my greedy daughter just finished the last of it," the medicine seller replied as he drew up alongside Szayel and placed a hand on his shoulder. Mayuri leaned in close, face millimeters away from his own.

Szayel shrugged, glancing away. So, it was nothing more than another one of his games. He didn't look forward to this one. Dehydration wasn't a pretty way to-

"We'd best go fetch some more then, hmm?"

Mayuri abruptly released him and pulled away. Szayel watched, mystified, as he reached into the cart to pull out the other empty water casks. This was a task he always relegated to Nemu. There had to have been some sort of ulterior motive fueling this, but he could not imagine for the life of him what it might be.

"Come."

A cask was thrust into his arms, then the medicine seller turned and set off. Szayel trailed behind at a slower pace. He was foot sore from having walked most of the day, and all he really wanted to do was sit down and rest, but Mayuri never took no for an answer.

They walked in silence for a good twenty minutes before they came across the river they'd passed earlier. Turning to look at Szayel, Mayuri set his cask down and motioned towards the water.

"Go and fill them, if you want your drink."

Szayel stooped to pick up the containers. He eyed Mayuri as he straightened, analyzing his face for any clue that might tell him what his purpose in bringing him here was, but the man was inscrutable. After another moment's hesitation, Szayel walked down to the river's edge, removed the lid on one cask, and dipped it into the water. As soon as it was full, he hefted it out and set it to the side, then picked up the second cask and repeated the procedure.

The container was halfway full when the water suddenly darkened. A webbed hand shot out of the water and seized his wrist in a strong grip. Szayel gasped and jerked backwards, scraping at the fingers wrapped around his wrist with his free hand, but they were slick and slippery and it was hard to get a good grip on them to rip them away. And it was strong. A yank from the river creature had him leaning precariously over the water again- another would send him tumbling into the river. He panicked, feeling his knees slipping down the embankment, and tried to reclaim his wrist again with little success.

Something green fell into the water with a soft plop. Without warning, the hand let go, and Szayel saw a shadow drift after the object. He didn't hesitate in yanking the cask out of the water and scrambling up the riverbank while the creature was distracted. Only when he found himself at Mayuri's feet did he look up at his master with an indignant scowl. The man returned his heated look coolly as he wiped a knife off on his robes.

"You're spilling the water," was all he said.

Szayel's eyes narrowed. He gestured towards the river. Mayuri had merely stood by and watched him struggle. If he truly _valued_ him for his blood, why hadn't he done something?

The medicine seller raised an eyebrow at his antics, looking bored.

"I didn't let you die. What more did you expect, kitsune?"

He… what?

"Kitsune?" inquired a voice from the riverbank. "This one's a kitsune?"

Szayel's head jerked towards the river again. There, leaning against the bank, was one of the ugliest creatures he'd ever seen. It looked like a cross between a deformed child and a turtle, with its small body, sunken eyes, and beaky face. Black, stringy hair was plastered against its greenish skin, beginning just below the circular depression in the crown of its skull. Its back was humped and protected by a large shell. He could see the object from earlier clutched in one of its hands; a cucumber, with the characters for his House name carved into the flesh.

A kappa. And it was watching him.

"He is," Mayuri replied. The creature tilted its head, examining Szayel for a moment, then it glanced down at the cucumber it held.

"This isn't his name. It doesn't feel correct. Why did you offer me a false name?"

"Truthfully, I don't know his real name, and I don't particularly care to learn it. I picked him up at a whorehouse on a rumor."

"A whorehouse? He must be young."

"Perhaps. He has a powerful curse on him. I haven't figured out how to undo it yet, but it has retarded his magical development."

"A lucky find. A full-fledged kitsune would have destroyed you, Kurotsuchi. You're playing with fire as it is."

Kurotsuchi. Szayel'd had his suspicions, but this confirmed it. Somehow, they knew each other. Which meant Mayuri had set him up. Bastard.

Mayuri offered the kappa an oily smile.

"I know my own limits. By all means, continue underestimating me because of my humanity. It makes my job easier."

The kappa glanced between Szayel and the medicine seller, then shook its head and slipped away from the river bank. It tread water for a few moments, making one final comment before slipping back beneath the water.

"Whatever you are, you aren't human, Kurotsuchi."

Then it was gone. Szayel watched the ripples spread across the surface, and the kappa's form vanish as it dove. The water was surprisingly deep. That explained how the youkai had managed to sneak up on him so easily. It must have surfaced just under the cask, using it as cover until the last moment.

"Well, now that _that's_ settled, you're free to help me gather a certain plant in this area."

Szayel cast Mayuri a sour look. The man only smirked.

"Kitsune, I wouldn't let a specimen as rare as you come to any real harm. Kappas are honor bound to leave in peace the ones whose names are carved into cucumber offerings. They consume the cucumber in place of human flesh. Kappas are among the easiest youkai to deal with because of their rigid codes of honor and predictable natures. I once tricked that one into serving me. He must still answer when I call him."

A youkai servant? Why hadn't Mayuri taken it apart and studied it? Or perhaps the terms of the contract didn't extend to sacrificing its life for the sake of honor? Frowning in thought, Szayel eased back down the embankment and leaned forwards to write in the soft mud.

_Why have you not killed it?_

"He is more useful to me alive, kitsune. I learned the basics of my craft from him. Kappas are very knowledgeable about medicine, like your kind, though they specialize in bonesetting. But my interests have moved beyond simple medicine."

So. Mayuri had grander ambitions than his current trade. Szayel was absolutely certain that his blood played a role in this scheme, but as for what part it played, he did not know. He supposed he would find out eventually. In the meantime…

_You know I am cursed? You have been trying to lift it? Why? Wouldn't I be more dangerous to you?_

Mayuri chuckled.

"Kitsune, you are no threat to me. You have no training, and I am accustomed to dealing with youkai. As for why, you're more useful to me with magic than without."

_I'm not your pet, Kurotsuchi. _

"But you_ are_ mine, kitsune."

_Szayel. Call me Szayel… I have a name._

Mayuri examined the words he'd written in the mud for a moment. His expression, when Szayel glanced over his shoulder to see it, was neutral.

"What use have I for calling you by name? Kitsune will suffice. You are only a youkai after all," the medicine seller replied, then walked down to the water's edge. Crouching, Mayuri reached into the river and plucked a strand of river weed. He placed it next to Szayel. "This. Do you recognize it?"

Szayel hunched over his knees and shook his head with a bitter expression. He was most familiar with terrestrial plants.

Mayuri made a disapproving sound.

"This plant promotes coagulation when crushed to a paste and applied to a wound. Does that mean anything to you, kitsune?"

Szayel nodded reluctantly after a long moment.

"Oh really?"

_Coagulation: blood clotting. It stems blood flow._

"Correct."

Mayuri rose again and walked back up the river bank. Though he wasn't smiling, he seemed pleased. Something about his energy gave it away… the energy Szayel couldn't ordinarily feel. For some reason, it was loose today.

Not for the first time, he wondered how it was that the man could conceal his presence so easily. That kind of thing… wasn't that magical in origin? He had little time to follow that train of thought, for Mayuri sat cross-legged in the grass and waited for Szayel to complete his task. He looked like a shogun despite his humble surroundings and strange appearance- it was the way he carried himself. He carried himself like nobility.

"You know what it looks like now. Pick more of it. My last client put a significant dent in my supply."

Szayel's lips thinned, but he complied, wondering if he was expected to carry both a cask and these plants back to the cart. As if the heavy, water-filled container wasn't enough; with his luck, Mayuri would probably have him carry the other cask back as well.

Surprisingly, the medicine seller had the grace to carry the cask he'd brought with him back to the cart.

* * *

**A/N: ***Just…. leaves this here*

Yeah. Uh, so I pretty much fought tooth and nail with this chapter for four months. I'm not even joking. And it still went in a slightly different direction than it was supposed to, but whatever :l I figured I'd write what I meant to write later and just scrape this one off my hands and fling it at the internet already. Because if I have to look at it one more time, I am going to have a screaming fit. I pretty much despise it by this point 8l *Bitch whine moan *

God Mayuri, you're such a fucking muse killer I don't even know. Why are you so hard to write? Ugh.

Tried to portray depersonalization (and a bit of derealization) due to the effect of the drugs on Szayel in this chapter. Probably failed. Either way, look them up. They're interesting.

Here's the usual disclaimer. I've taken liberties with the kitsune species. No, as far as I know, they aren't super knowledgeable about medicine. That's unique to this canon. Kappas on the other hand do have some ties to medicine. They're credited in mythology with having taught bonesetting to humans. The river plant that promotes coagulation is completely made up, mmhm. I figured I get some artistic license with a magical universe.

R&R, and I'll (hopefully) see you guys sooner this next time around. (God, I don't even want to think about how late I am about updating all my other stories)


	21. Lúcido

He sat on a small hill, hunched over his own knees. His chin rested on the tops of his arms as he gazed out across the sea of darkness that surrounded his perch. Every so often, another wave would lap at the perimeter of his little island, leaving sticky black tendrils in the grass. He did his best to ignore these. Acknowledging them only hastened the sea's arrival.

Scant shafts of sunlight filtered down through the murk. Peering up, he could see a sliver of blue sky. It flickered occasionally, as though threatening to close up and leave him in full darkness. Szayel pictured it expanding when this happened. He willed the sunlight to spread and illuminate his surroundings. It never did, but at the very least, the sunshine never fully disappeared. Not like it used to, anyways.

He wasn't sure when he noticed that he was no longer alone on his hill, but he tensed when he sensed the presence of another. Mayuri seemed to have coalesced out of the darkness itself. Szayel turned to face him warily, wondering what this apparition had in store for him, but instead of tormenting him, the medicine seller took a seat across from him in the grass. The man glanced around, examining his surroundings with interest.

"You've gotten good at this," Mayuri remarked.

Szayel's lips thinned.

"It certainly seems that the dose I have you on is ineffective if you're able to resist the venom to this degree. How intriguing… I wonder if-"

"Who are you?" Szayel's tone was taut as he cut the man off. This had never happened before.

The medicine seller tilted his head, looking amused.

"Who else could I be? Really, kitsune. I'm disappointed."

"You're not Kurostuchi."

"Ooh? Well, you are the master of this world. Tell me, who am I?"

"Just… a figment of my imagination," Szayel replied, glancing away from the spectre. This wasn't going at all like how it usually did. Usually the hallucinatory monsters that made it through the sunlight attacked him immediately. They did not sit down and have conversations with him.

As though aware of his doubt, Mayuri smiled.

"Is that so? Well then, supposing I am just a manifestation of your mind, what should I be doing?"

"Tormenting me."

"Is that what you'd like me to do?"

"No."

"Good. I'd rather not squander this rare opportunity to speak with you."

"Stop that," Szayel ordered. He rose. Mayuri followed suit, but Szayel still had the advantage of height. It was funny. The man seemed so much taller in real life, but here, he didn't have to worry about the power dynamics between them. He wasn't afraid of him. He could see him for how he truly was.

"Stop what?" Mayuri inquired.

"Stop acting like you're real. You're not."

"But I am who you understand me to be, am I not? Wouldn't your mind generate my behavior according to your interpretation of me?"

"I…" He had a point. It was disturbing to interact with this dream version of Mayuri, however he wouldn't let it phase him. If they were to have a conversation, he'd converse with the man. Might as well. It had been such a long time since he'd last spoken with someone. "Alright, Kurotsuchi. What do you want to know?"

"How long have you been lucid dreaming?"

"You mean… doing this?"

"Yes. How long have you been in control?"

"Hm…" All told, it hadn't been long. "I've had this level of control for two weeks, but it has taken me months to reach this point. At first, I was only able to hold on for a minute or two."

He still failed sometimes. It was very difficult to retain this little control he had over his dream world. Things got through sometimes. His concentration slipped, the sunlight vanished for a moment. He became vulnerable.

"No wonder you've seemed more aware lately," Mayuri commented as he sat down again. He gestured for Szayel to take a seat as well. After a moment's hesitation, Szayel acceded.

"You noticed?"

"Of course I noticed. You're monopolizing all my attention at the moment."

"It seems you ignore me half the time."

"I would be rewarding your insubordination if I interacted with you like you want."

"Insubordination? You might own me, but I'm not yours Kurotsuchi."

"I believe we've already had this conversation, kitsune-"

"No."

Szayel scowled. He wasn't going to take the imaginary medicine seller's shit here. If he wanted, he could shut the man up. This was his dream, his realm of control. He could make the man suffer _so_ exquisitely.

"No. We have not. We have had multiple one-sided conversations where you have talked down to me and I have allowed your words to sink in and harm me. But you haven't broken me yet, Kurotsuchi, nor will you."

The medicine seller's pervasive smile faded somewhat. His voice was cooler when he spoke again.

"Such defiant words. You wouldn't dare voice them outside of this place."

Szayel raised his chin and glanced down his nose at him.

"So? It doesn't matter what I say or don't say. The fact is, you've failed to break me. That's what you wanted, right? You wanted my absolute loyalty. You wanted another Nemu. Well, that's not going to happen. Just give up already."

Mayuri's lips twisted into a sneer.

"You are not as stable as you believe. Look at yourself. Look around you. You're just barely hanging on. You've managed to claw some purchase from your nightmares, but it's so tenuous. At any moment, you could fail."

"I'm making progress."

"No. You're just fooling yourself into believing you can delay the inevitable."

"Isn't that you, Kurotsuchi?"

Szayel leaned forward, confident in his assessment. It felt good, being the one in control of the situation.

"And what would that be?" Mayuri asked, eyes flat with irritation. No amusement glimmered in their depths. He finally had him on the defensive.

"The fact that I'm winning. The fact that I will win."

"But what are you winning, kitsune?" the medicine seller snapped. When Szayel didn't immediately reply, his eyes shone and his mouth spread in a shark's grin. "You don't even know. You don't even know what you're trying to accomplish. You're just struggling blindly, and this is why you _will not win._"

And in a moment, Mayuri had turned it around again. Szayel blinked. Then his lips thinned, and he straightened his shoulders. No. He really, _really_ didn't need to play Mayuri's games here. Nor did he want to. In fact, it was high time he initiated a game of his own.

"Wrong, Kurotsuchi. As long as you're a guest in my mind, I set the rules. And you see… I don't particularly enjoy losing."

Szayel rose.

"Since I have been losing all my life."

He stooped to pull Kurotsuchi to his feet in one effortless motion.

"And it's become rather tiresome, prostrating myself to people like you."

He didn't let go of the medicine seller just yet. Tilting his head to the side, he offered him a coquettish smile.

"So I think perhaps we ought to start over. I am Szayel, scion of the noble house of Iwara and heir to Inari's blessing. I have no home, but this is my domain. And you have overstepped your bounds."

Szayel pulled Mayuri close so that their cheeks touched and his lips brushed over the smaller man's ear. It was thrilling, having this much power over another person. Szayel loved it. Nnnh… he hoped Mayuri would pay him another visit in the future. The subtle tensing of the body in his arms was _rapturous._

"There's really only one rule here. Don't upset me. That's all. Simple enough, right?"

Szayel caressed the back of his head, then pulled away. His hands came to rest on Mayuri's shoulders. The medicine seller looked wary, as he should.

"Be grateful I'm not getting more creative with your punishment, Kurotsuchi."

"Punishment? You really believe you're entitled to deliver punishment, kitsune?" said Mayuri.

Szayel laughed.

Then he gave the man a violent shove.

And he watched the medicine seller tumble backwards.

Down.

Down.

The black sea rose up to claim him, bogging down his limbs and snaking inky tendrils over his face, eyes, nose until it had him completely. Then he was gone, dragged underneath the surface.

Szayel sat down again, watching the place where he'd disappeared. If he managed to surface, he'd simply force him under again. Mayuri wouldn't escape the nightmare drug thrall so easily.

-.-.-.-.-.-

He couldn't remember the last time he'd woken up before Mayuri. For about ten minutes, his world was serene. Then worry began to gnaw at him. What if the man had something that allowed him to enter dreams? What if that really had been Mayuri in his mind? Gods, what would that mean for him? But when Mayuri finally stirred and woke, he didn't cast him more than a raised eyebrow.

"You're up early, kitsune."

Szayel relaxed a little and nodded.

"Well, make yourself useful and go start a fire then."

He crawled out of his bedding and went to go hunt for kindling and wood while the medicine seller woke his daughter. By the time he'd returned, the camp site had been tidied and a place cleared for the fire. The fact that he was practiced at building one made the task no less onerous. His mother had been capable of bringing one to life with a thought. Creating fire was one of the most basic abilities a kitsune possessed; he couldn't even manipulate an already existing flame.

Once the stand was set up and the water for their breakfast simmering, Szayel settled down to relax. Nemu had already made the other meal preparations, and Mayuri appeared to be meditating. It was… nice. There was an undercurrent of anxiety that he couldn't quite shake, but it was a surprisingly peaceful morning on the whole. After a few minutes of silence, Szayel closed his eyes and sat cross legged, deciding to take a leaf out of the medicine seller's book and try a little meditation himself.

It had been a few months since his encounter with the kappa, but he could recall Mayuri's words with an eerie sort of clarity. He had magic potential trapped inside him somewhere, but the curse his mother had placed upon him had retarded that growth. If he could find a way to lift that spell, Szayel could live. He could _thrive_, unbeholden to anyone but himself. And he could do with his powers what he liked, because if Inari truly wanted him, if anyone truly wanted him, wouldn't they have made the attempt by now? Wouldn't there have been some sign by now? Some signal that he was destined for greatness in time?

There'd been nothing. Clearly, the universe and the gods had forsaken him. So he would have his power in time, and he would learn how to use it, and once he'd mastered his abilities, there would be hell to pay for anyone who'd ever harmed him. He did not care if this made him seem wicked, for he was not wicked. He was justified in his vengeance. He had his honor and his family's honor to avenge. That was something noble.

Szayel exhaled, clearing the angry thoughts from his mind and focusing on his breathing. In, out. Full, empty. His heart beat steadily in the background. It slowed a little as he found a rare state of calm.

He could feel Nemu's presence by the fire, tending to the rice. It was the faintest of impressions in his mind, but she was still there. This excited him, and for a moment, he lost his focus. She blurred, dissolved, and he grit his teeth and tried to clear his mind again. After a few minutes, he managed to reenter his meditative state.

Szayel let it lapse just as promptly as the first time. The euphoria was too powerful. He was doing it. He was doing what Kaname could do, on a very very rudimentary level. Granted, it wasn't a technique that required more ability than an unusually spiritual aware human could manage, but it was _something_ he hadn't always been able to do, and maybe… just maybe if he could practice this, he could potentially unlock his own spiritual energy? Biting back a grin, the kitsune focused again, this time searching for Mayuri's energy.

What he found was… strange.

He knew that the man could conceal his energy signature at will. In hindsight, he understood now that he'd always been able to sense spiritual energy in a very basic way. It was that ability to sense the emotional state and presence of the people around him. But examining him from this new lens left him feeling unsettled. There was something not right about Kurotsuchi Mayuri.

Though still very faint (likely due to Szayel's own incompetence with this new skill), he glowed a little brighter than his daughter. But the moment Szayel attempted to bring him into focus, Mayuri's light dimmed, then diffused. His spiritual energy seemed to scatter, becoming part of his surroundings until Szayel could no longer detect a distinct sense of the man. He wasn't concealing his energy, he was letting go of it completely.

Szayel felt a bead of sweat slide down the back of his neck as he considered the ramifications of this discovery. This should not have been possible. Scattering his spiritual energy like that should have killed him, or at least left him incapable of awareness.

"Confused?"

Szayel's eyes flew open. Mayuri had moved without making a sound and was now sitting centimeters away from him, grinning that damnable smile of his.

"You should learn to hide yourself better if you intend to spy on people, kitsune. Even the most spiritually insensitive person can sense _something _when they are being watched."

_How?_

"But I'm sure you're not interested in that. No, what you're interested in is how I'm able to disappear, hm?"

_Yes. Yes yes yes._

Mayuri chuckled and leaned in, forcing Szayel back an inch.

"A good business man never gives up his trade secrets. Why should I tell you?"

Szayel shot him a look of pure, desperate irritation. He could never get a straight reply out of the man, not when he was bartering for something. And Szayel knew exactly what he was bartering for, but he refused to pay the price. Not on Mayuri's terms. Never on the medicine seller's terms. It was the only thing he had to barter with, after all.

"You know what I'd trade the information for, Kitsune. Just one little vial. Just one tiny little vial."

Szayel shook his head lightly, sullenly. It wasn't worth it.

The medicine seller's mad grin faded and settled into a patient half smile. He was still confident, Szayel could tell. Confident that he'd have what he wanted in time. Indeed, Mayuri seemed to be in a playful mood. He reached forward, fingers twining with some of Szayel's hair.

"I've been thinking lately that your current dosage is no longer adequate. Would you find that accurate, kisune?"

Szayel's eyes narrowed a fraction. This was… just a little too close to his dream. However, reluctantly, he nodded.

"I'm glad that you agree. I would have had to administer an additional punishment if you'd lied to me. You're developing resistance, aren't you?"

Another nod.

"What should I increase your dosage by? What estimate would you give me? You know your own body best, after all."

Szayel shuddered slightly. Honesty, dishonesty, it didn't matter. They'd both end horribly. But it smarted to have to write up his own drug prescription. Removing the hand in his hair, he traced his response in Mayuri's palm.

_Try increasing the dosage by a third to begin with. If you are unsatisfied with the result, continue to increase it by increments of thirds until you have reached the desired result._

"And if I wish to simply double it?"

Szayel's expression soured.

_It would probably not kill me. However, it seems wasteful. Tsuchinoko venom can't be an easily obtained substance._

"No, it isn't. I have to lure the youkai and milk the venom myself," the medicine seller replied. Coming to a conclusion, Mayuri clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "Very well. I'll increase it by a third starting tomorrow."

The news, while expected, still made his stomach sink. The pride he'd felt earlier at being able to see spiritual energy was gone. How could he practice developing his skills when he'd be spending his days out of his mind with hallucinations and in constant pain again? Things had been getting tolerable. He'd been adjusting. But now… now things were going to be like they'd been before. Unbearable. He felt sick just thinking about it.

"Don't look so bitter, kitsune. I know you'd destroy me in a heartbeat if our positions were reversed. Why should I take mercy on you if you'd show me none? And you'd be a fool to show me mercy in my position, because I'm dangerous. That's what you do with dangerous things. You either train them, or you terminate them."

Szayel hadn't realized his head had drooped until he felt Mayuri raise his chin. It wasn't a forceful action. If anything, it was surprisingly gentle.

"And I would prefer to not have to kill you, kitsune. I really would."

With that, the medicine seller finally rose and drifted away from him to go inspect how breakfast was progressing.

Szayel stared after him, wondering if he'd ever get used to the man's eccentricities.

-.-.-.-.-.-

True to his word, the dosage was increased the next day.

Szayel fought the effects of the drug as best as he could, but they were overwhelming. In the cart, held down by restraints and gagged so he wouldn't bite off his tongue, he thrashed and screamed until his body was too exhausted to continue. Even after he passed out, some part of him was still aware and suffering acutely, for that was the nature of the venom. It didn't allow for complete oblivion.

Perched on top of the cart in a meditative position, Kurotsuchi Mayuri opened his eyes and nodded in satisfaction. He slid the luminous pearl he held into a silk drawstring bag, then tucked it safely away.

The one third increase would suffice.

* * *

**A/N:**HEY LOVELIES! This originally had 50% more complaining, but then a friend pointed out that this fic has garnered 100 reviews. Which reminded me that it's also up to over 100k words as of the last chapter. I think that deserves some celebration. So thank you all so much for sticking with me even if I'm a slacker, and I hope you continue to enjoy this in the future C8

This chapter has pretty minimal editing. If there are any glaring errors, feel free to PM me about them. I'll probably go back over it later and fix the little things I missed as needed.

I am aware of the purges that were happening on FFN. All my fics are completely backed up, so don't worry. The only thing that'll be lost if mine ever get taken down are all your lovely comments, which is a loss in and of itself :c But the stories are safe.

I'll stop chatting now and get back to writing. Got a lot of catching up to do before my writing muse decides to go have another fling with a different fandom. Shockingly enough, Mayuri is the reason why I actually finished writing this chapter this time. I really do want to do more with him in the future. I kind of miss playing with the guy.


	22. Experimento

He felt sick all the time. Not deathly ill, but dogged by a sense of malaise he couldn't shake. Concentration was difficult. His appetite declined. He suffered a constant low grade fever. It had been a while since Mayuri had drugged him every day like clockwork, and it was taking its toll. He spent more than half of his day sleeping. By the time they made camp in the evenings, he was exhausted, but his body rebelled at the idea of further sleep. Even his non-drugged dreams were chaotic and fitful, and he woke up periodically during the night.

Mayuri didn't even ask for his blood. He didn't have to. The expectation was there. Szayel understood very well what it would take to end this. _Just a little vial_, Mayuri always said. Just one little vial… as often as the medicine seller wanted it.

He was on his ninth day (give or take a day) of this regimen and he wanted to scream. His vision was blurry waking up. Nothing new; he'd experienced this in the past. But it was frustrating and his patience was waning and he'd gotten used to feeling _healthy_. Walking almost every day had made him fit, and he'd more or less adjusted to the previous dosage, which hadn't been administered every day. He'd actually started to feel good… and now he just felt toxic. His blood was sludge in his veins, noxious and foul.

Somehow he'd managed to start the fire, and he sat in front of it now, staring into the flames with an unfocused gaze. A moment later, he felt Mayuri settle down next to him. Szayel drew his knees up to his chest and laid his forehead on top of one. He drew a shaky breath, then silently extended his other arm for the medicine seller to take. Once he felt the needle pinch his skin and the poison rush into his body, he let the arm drop.

Minutes passed. Szayel waited for the hallucinations to creep up on him, but nothing happened. He frowned. His veins weren't burning the way they usually did either. This was different. This wasn't tsuchinoko venom. But… if Mayuri hadn't injected him with that, what _had_ he injected him with?

Szayel tried to straighten to give the man a questioning look, but his body suddenly felt weak; flimsy, like his limbs weren't under his control. After a few jerky attempts at movement, he felt his body give out, and he flopped sideways against Mayuri. His pulse and breathing became a little uneven, but strangely enough as he would have expected with a muscle relaxant, they weren't severely compromised. The medicine seller hoisted him into a sitting position, though Szayel still leaned against Mayuri, unable to support himself.

"The agent I administered is yet another drug of youkai origin. I typically use it when I want to capture or subdue a dangerous subject since it renders them immobile without killing them. But it also interacts unusually with tsuchinoko venom, neutralizing it. The reverse is also true."

… indeed, he could already feel some of the weakness easing from his body. Whatever venom lingered in his system was doing its best to neutralize the new drug.

Szayel wondered what poor creature Mayuri had sourced this one from.

"You might be wondering why I'm doing this at all. The truth is, I require your assistance with a project today."

His assistance… Mayuri needed his assistance. With what? There was never a good reason for Mayuri asking his assistance. It usually ended badly. Like that incident with the kappa. Szayel drew a shuddering breath. What were his options? Refuse the man and likely return to a drugged stupor? Humor him and regain clarity for a few precious hours at the expense of something else? Ha. He wasn't a gambler, but by this point, he'd risk the latter. He desperately needed this break.

Szayel nodded. It was more of a twitch than a nod, but Mayuri caught it anyways.

"Good. You'll be helping me with my research. Nemu should be back soon with the specimen. I sent her after it last night."

Szayel narrowed his eyes at him. He sent a young woman off in the middle of the night to pursue a supernatural being?

"Oh, she's more than capable, kitsune," Mayuri replied, reading his censure. "I wouldn't have sent her if I did not believe she would return."

Szayel glanced away. It was none of his concern what happened to Mayuri's daughter, and if he was really so confident, she would be back. Closing his eyes, he waited for the drug to finish clearing his body of the tsuchinoko venom.

Mayuri fell silent, leaving only the snap of the campfire and distant birdsong to fill the quiet. It was peaceful. For a brief period of time, he could relax without having to worry about anything. It begged the question, why? Mayuri must have been aware of how much of a boon this was to him psychologically. Szayel licked his lips. They were dry, cracking. The rest of him didn't feel much better. Perhaps he was just being practical. Keep him ill for too long, and even his blood would have difficulty repairing the damage. Whatever the reason, he fully intended to take advantage of the reprieve for as long as it lasted. No sense stressing over the details. The warmth of the fire soon lulled him into a trance, then sleep itself.

He didn't know how long he napped. It couldn't have been more than an hour based on the sun's position. He had the faint impression that he'd dreamed, but he couldn't remember what about. It couldn't have been anything too unpleasant, or he would have remembered it more vividly.

He was curled against Mayuri. It took a moment to clear the sleep fog from his mind and register this fact, When he did, he straightened immediately, then cast the man a sidelong look. Had he really not moved in that hour? It seemed a waste of his time.

"You have impeccable timing, kitsune," Mayuri said, "Though perhaps that is no coincidence."

Nemu appeared moments later, carrying what appeared to be a bundled up child. Her face was scratched and there were what appeared to be bite marks on her forearms, but for the most part, she seemed to be in fairly good condition. It was only when she drew close that he could see the dullness of her eyes and how her body trembled. She placed the child gently down by the fire, then straightened again, awaiting further instruction.

"You may rest." Mayuri dismissed her, already captivated with his newest acquisition. Nemu promptly crumpled, curling up on the cold ground without so much as making an attempt to retrieve her bedding from the cart.

What had exhausted her so? Szayel's eyes flickered from her prone form to the unconscious child she'd returned with. He could feel its energy, so much denser than anything he'd encountered in a while, and knew that this was the reason he'd been roused from his nap. A youkai. But what sort of yokai was this? He struggled to remember what beings had the forms of children. There were the zashiki-warashi, child-like spirits that haunted old, well maintained houses and brought good fortune to the inhabitants. Could this be one? Or perhaps it was truly still a child.

Szayel suddenly felt ill as he realized that this was the being that Mayuri intended to research. It looked too human.

"Don't get too attached," Mayuri warned as he scooped up the yokai to carry her- he was fairly certain it was a she –away from the fire. Szayel stared after him, reluctant to follow and take part in the man's research. He had no doubt that the medicine seller would be remorseless about getting what he wanted. This was clearly a being he didn't need to bargain with. It was only after Mayuri ordered him over that he crept after him.

Hovering over the child youkai, he felt his stomach twist. It could have been him in her place. He looked so human after all, but on the inside, he was different. Like her, he wasn't really human. They were both being persecuted for it.

"Do you pity it, kitsune?" Mayuri asked as he uncorked a vial of golden dust.

Szayel refused to look at him. It was answer enough. The medicine seller's mouth quirked into a fleeting smile. Then he shook a small amount of the dust into his palm and blew it over the girl's face.

The child stirred. She frowned, nose scrunching up. Then she sneezed. Her eyes flew open. They were a startling shade of pale green, reminiscent of polished jade, and they darted between himself and Mayuri before narrowing. Her lips drew back into a snarl as she growled and thrashed about in her bindings, struggling to get free.

"Do hold it down, it would be inconvenient if it got loose," the medicine seller remarked. He proceeded to carefully select and lay out a variety of implements. Most were familiar to him; he'd seen Mayuri's knives and syringes more times than he cared for. As usual, there was an assortment of powders and drugs on standby. But there was one strange new addition he'd never seen before; a tiny bone flute.

Szayel felt sweat bead on the back of his neck as he fought to keep the girl restrained. She was so small, but her size was deceptive. She was far stronger than she had any right to be. It was no wonder Nemu had been so exhausted. He felt himself weakening quickly, debilitated as he was by his recent drug regimen. Sensing imminent victory, the girl screamed and surged upwards, throwing him off. Szayel fell on his back, breathless. Before him, the child morphed into an enormous cat with a bifurcated tail.

Bakeneko… He felt his mouth go dry as a wave of energy rolled over him. The sheer malevolence it exuded pinned him to the spot. It flicked its tail as it considered them both, deciding which to attack first. It didn't take long for it to decide that Szayel was the more vulnerable target. In one fluid movement, the youkai sprang towards him- then seized up mid jump.

Szayel's heart leapt into his throat as he finally regained control of his limbs, and he scrambled out of the way. The bakeneko thrashed on the ground, ears pinned flat against its skull and teeth bared in a pained snarl. Transfixed, he only noticed Mayuri when the man knelt, and wielding one of his surgical knives, severed the creature's tail. The flute was on his lips, and his cheeks puffed out as he blew a steady note in some register his ears could not detect. The bakeneko yowled and jerked spasmodically, but its body began to shrink. By the time it had finished changing, it was the size of an ordinary house cat.

Mayuri drove a needle into the youkai's flank and depressed the plunger, then sat back on his heels and waited for his drug to take effect. He played an inaudible song on the small flute while he waited, which elicited peculiar growls and whines from the creature. Only when its movements had subsided did the medicine seller stop. His gaze shifted back to Szayel, and he offered him an unnerving smile.

"So, now you see it for the monster it was all along. Much like kitsune, bakeneko are shape shifters, but they are less skilled with illusions. They must always take the shape of someone else. This one probably devoured the child it was masquerading as."

Szayel glanced away. He did not want to think about it. It had occurred to him. He'd learned about bakeneko as a child from his mother's books, but this was different. It was one thing to read about them in an abstract sense, quite another to encounter one.

"Do you still pity it, kitsune?"

The bakeneko hissed and shifted, attempting to crane its head around to look at him. Startled by the sudden movement, Szayel edged away from it.

"Kitsune? You are a kitsune?" Its jade green eyes, now glazed over from the pain and the tranquilizer, nonetheless found his. It searched his face for a moment before narrowing its eyes in contempt. "Why do you assist him?"

"Don't bother with him. He's a mute," Mayuri said. The bakeneko glanced over at the medicine seller and bared its teeth before returning its attention to Szayel.

"You're debasing yourself by abetting him. If you had any self-respect, you'd kill him."

Mayuri brought the flute to his lips again and the bakeneko flattened its ears and yowled. This time, the medicine seller did not stop until the creature had lost consciousness.

"It's a good thing you don't speak," he remarked as he set the flute aside, "As I have a rather low threshold for stupidity. But I think you'll agree in this case that the screaming was much more tolerable."

Szayel watched as he lifted the severed tail and displayed it. It was a gruesome trophy, matted with fresh blood and hanging limply in his hands.

"The bakeneko's tail is the focal point for its power. Without it, it cannot progress any further magically. Its ability to perform magic also diminishes. This of course makes it extremely valuable. Other parts of its body can be harvested for use, but always take the tail. Grind the tail bones to a powder and use it to anoint a corpse, and you can temporarily raise the dead."

Setting it aside, Mayuri picked up his knife again and rolled the bakeneko onto its back. Szayel tensed, realizing he intended to remove whatever parts he wanted while the thing was still alive. And while it wouldn't feel a thing, it still seemed terribly cruel.

Mayuri made the first incision, slicing neatly through skin and fat. Subsequent strokes allowed him to peel back the layers and reveal the youkai's glistening viscera. Beneath the bloody white of its rib cage, he could see the creature's lungs rise and fall as it breathed. And horrifying as the situation was, Szayel had to appreciate the man's skill. This was no butcher job- it was elegant, as elegant as this kind of procedure could be. Mayuri secured the youkai's flesh with a needle and thread to keep the flaps from closing, then selected one of his more delicate knives and began his harvest.

The liver, he explained, he intended to experiment with. Bakenekos were capable of consuming venom. He wanted to better understand how they processed it. A segment of the creature's intestines was removed for the same reason. The heart was another organ he was interested in, though he was vague about his intended use for it. And of course, he took blood samples.

By the time he was through, the youkai lay disassembled in tidy piles of flesh, bone, and offal. Mayuri casually wiped his hands on the beast's hide, which he'd cut away from its body with all the care of an artisan.

"Do something with that. Cook it and eat it. Feed it to the carrion eaters. I don't care. I don't want it rotting and stinking up the camp site while I work," he said, gesturing towards the discards.

Eat it? The idea filled him with revulsion, and he covered his mouth reflexively. It had been human shaped at some point, even if it wasn't human. It had spoken to him. It had been alarmingly sentient. Mayuri, who'd been gathering up his materials, flashed him a patronizing smile.

"It is the nature of beasts to consume the weak. Don't look so scandalized, kitsune. Incidentally, I would recommend simmering the bones and fat down into a broth." He departed without further comment, leaving Szayel to stare after him incredulously.

His words stayed with him for the remainder of the day, an oily skim tainting his thoughts. When Nemu woke, she immediately set to work preparing a soup out of the leftovers, answering any lingering questions about whether the medicine seller had been facetious in his suggestion. This was clearly something he'd done before. The revelation prompted a new string of questions, all of them disconcerting to consider. Had he, in some drug addled state, been fed some type of youkai unwittingly? He'd been force fed and injected with all kinds of youkai-sourced medicines, so technically he'd already trespassed into a morally gray area. Another youkai would just as soon eat him given the opportunity. The one Mayuri had butchered had probably eaten several humans.

And then there was Mayuri's comment on the nature of beasts. He'd thought at first that it was yet another snide jab at his youkai heritage, but it wasn't Szayel who was in the practice of preying on the weak. Which begged the question… just what had he meant by it? Had he in fact been referencing himself? But no, Mayuri considered himself superior. That couldn't be it.

By the time the food was done cooking, his hunger pangs were audible. Nemu had found herbs and vegetables to add in with the meat and bones, and the resulting soup smelled divine. Swallowing his moral deliberations, Szayel sat down with the medicine seller and his daughter and shared a bowl of it over rice. The taste was incomparable. Savory in a way he could not describe. Not gamey, but with an edge that domestic meats did not possess. And it was meltingly soft, falling to pieces on his tongue.

With a twinge of guilt, he served himself another bowl. His body was overcome by a physical craving for food after days of drug induced sickness. He'd lost a lot of weight in the time he'd been incapacitated, progress he'd have to make back again whenever Mayuri saw fit to ease up on his punishment. However awful the morning had been, however awful his own actions made him feel, he was glad for the respite.

Mayuri left him to his own devices for the remainder of the day, returning to his research as soon as he was finished eating. Szayel took the opportunity to escape the campsite and go for a walk. The thought of fleeing barely even occurred to him - he was still too weakened to go very far. Mayuri knew this of course, or he would have had Nemu keep an eye on him.

Instead, he sought out a body of water to bathe in. He hadn't had a proper bath in far too long. But after an hour of fruitless wandering, he was parched and exhausted. The afternoon sun beat down on him relentlessly, sapping him of the little strength he'd had to start with. Szayel flopped down in the grass. He longed for a drink of water or some shade, but he wasn't ready to return to Mayuri yet.

Szayel blinked slowly, taking in the blue expanse of cloudless sky that stretched in all directions overhead. The same blue sky he'd associated with freedom back when he lived at the House and imagined whenever he felt particularly upset. With a twinge of nostalgia, he wondered how the girls were doing. Umeko and her Kaito, bold Torako, delicate Sumire… he closed his eyes as his throat closed. The House was not a place he wanted to return to. Not ever. But he missed the girls and he missed having a place to sleep that wasn't outside and he missed… Nnoitra.

… no. His lips thinned, and he turned over onto his side. That was one thing he should not pine for. He'd had enough of pining for whatever that relationship had been. It had hurt at the beginning. Part of him had entertained the feeble hope that the man would find him somehow, rescue him from Mayuri as he'd hoped he would rescue him from the House. And besides, it had been entirely one-sided. Nnoitra paid to use him as a diversion. He'd been a strange obsession to the man, and while he'd claimed ownership over him, he'd never actually wanted to own him. It made discarding him so much easier when the time came because he didn't physically have to get rid of him. Not to mention he'd been one of his most abusive patrons. Sometimes stunningly considerate, yes, but at other times, incredibly sadistic. One did not balance out the other. In retrospect, he could appreciate just how toxic the situation had been.

In fact… Szayel frowned as he explored this kernel of an idea. In fact, there were several parallels he could draw between Mayuri's treatment of him and Nnoitra's mind games. It was no surprise to him, but he hadn't often had the time to reflect on just how deep the similarities ran. Both Mayuri and Nnoitra alternated punishment with rewards to make him pliable to their wills. Nnoitra would build him up, challenge him, then break him down again when he developed too much agency. He would give him gifts to earn his gratitude and take them away if he showed a hint of entitlement. He'd tried to craft a dependency on him, and unfortunately, he'd succeeded.

Mayuri's methods were a little different, but the desired effect was the same. And there was the same duality to his treatment. Mayuri condescended him, constantly reminding him of his inferior position, but he also praised him. He was less than human, but infinitely more valuable than the majority of humanity. He acknowledged his intelligence, challenged him to apply his knowledge and training, but drugged him back into oblivion the moment he pushed his boundaries. He was dangerous. Mayuri wanted his cooperation, but he didn't want to second guess his loyalty. He wanted to own him entirely, another tool in his collection to make use of at his discretion.

So then, why had Nnoitra succeeded where Mayuri had not? Why had he so stubbornly resisted Mayuri's efforts to train him? Perhaps it was _because_ Nnoitra had succeeded first. His loyalty had already been earned. He'd already recovered a degree of self-assurance by the time Mayuri had found him. The idea of freedom had been so thrillingly close when it had been cruelly snatched away from him, and he'd balked. He'd dug his heels in and refused to repeat the past. And then there had been the matter of a lingering pride in his heritage and the shame in dishonoring his "gift" and the memory of his mother.

It was no longer pride that kept him from spilling his blood by this point. Nor was it shame. It was a sense of self preservation. It was a selfish, primal reason. And it was a resentful one. He was tired, so very tired of being treated like a second class citizen. He wanted power after years of being powerless. That brief taste of it he'd had… he wanted it again. Mayuri had promised him the possibility of unleashing that power, with the unspoken caveat that it would only be according to Mayuri's wishes. That was why he had to keep him fettered, because he was gambling that he could have Szayel under control by the time he could access those powers.

Szayel sat up, brushing hair out of his face as he turned these ideas over in his mind. There was no telling how much longer he'd be lucid for. He had to take advantage of Mayuri's rare clemency for as long as it lasted. He'd made some progress with meditation the previous time. Szayel made an effort to ease back into it, suppressing the discomforts of his weariness and thirst. Gradually, these distractions faded into the background of his consciousness, and he was able to focus on the energy surrounding him.

There was no one in his immediate vicinity to concentrate on like there had been the last time. The brightest fire was his own, thrumming deep in the core of him. He focused on it, exploring the bright matrix that laced his hands and arms and legs. It brought a smile to his lips as he remembered Kaname again. Kaname, who must have seen the world so beautifully, even if he saw it differently. He wished he could have shared this discovery with him. Szayel tried to cast his gaze around, but the rest of the world was still overwhelmingly hazy. The grass around him was one bright blur of soft light. Feeling disoriented, he returned to concentrating on himself.

This time, he noticed something different. Threads of a darker color wove through his spiritual energy. They shimmered, blinking in and out of his sight, and concentrating on them for too long gave him a headache, but he forced himself to bring them into focus anyways. With this new awareness of their existence, spotting them became progressively easier. After a while, he managed to trace the filaments to a node in his neck. There, they formed a dark snarl. Glittering black ropes extended from it, circling his throat. A fine mesh permeated his spiritual core as the filaments resolved into a pattern.

Szayel opened his eyes, feeling shaken. This was the curse his mother had placed on him. Of this, he had no doubt. There was nothing else it could have been. But it was so entrenched. How could he hope to break free of it? He barely had the magical awareness to detect it, let alone do something about it.

Psychologically drained and suffering from a pounding headache, Szayel dragged himself upright and began the trek back to the campsite. The sun had declined by several degrees in the sky since he'd stopped to rest and meditate. Perhaps if he was lucky, Mayuri was still absorbed by his work and would forgive his long absence.

* * *

**A/N:** I'll preface this A/N by pointing out that it has been precisely one year since I last updated this story. 7/5/12 was the last update. It is 7/5/13 as I type this. With that said, I apologize for how long it took to get this chapter out.

In fact, because some of you read my other stories, I want to take this chance to apologize for how long it has taken me to update all of my fics. I don't have an excuse. Sometime around early fall of last year, I just got burnt out on the fandom. I've been burnt out on my own writing for even longer. But as I've said before, I'm not the type to drop a story. Even if it takes me a long time to update, I will eventually update.

A couple comments about the chapter itself. I'm issuing my usual disclaimer of "I'm taking a lot of artistic liberties with mythology so please do not take everything I say at face value and feel free to conduct your own research" with the whole bakeneko thing (this one was technically a nekomata since it had a bifurcated tail). I anticipate upsetting some folks with Szayel's internal dialogue critique of his and Nnoitra's relationship, but let's be honest here. Their relationship is a very unhealthy one, and I never set out to glorify abuse or try to downplay that reality. That said, I still sail this ship. Very much so. This ship is an OTP ship. So don't worry your pretty little heads about me suddenly abandoning it (though you can bet I'll flirt with other pairings along the way because I'm an incorrigible omnishipper when it comes to Szayel)

To those who have stuck with me, thank you for your continued patience. I hope you all enjoy the future chapters whenever the come out. (Except those of you who leave nice Anon reviews because you make me sad :c I just want to say hello why won't you let me say hello?)


	23. Riesgo

He was lucid dreaming again. The island was much bigger this time since Mayuri had neglected to give him a dose of venom before he went to sleep and the other drug had scoured away the lingering impurities. At this point, he was fighting with his own exhaustion and the natural propensity towards passive dreaming. But it was worthwhile. The sea surrounding his island was a crystalline blue instead of the usual black, and he walked along the beach, enjoying the salt breeze that blew off the waves. Further inland, he'd designed a lush, sprawling forest filled with beautiful flowering trees and plants. Everything was orderly, except where he encouraged chaos in a riotous celebration of life and overgrowth. There was something joyous in the unrestrained, though ultimately, everything was under his control. All of this was his creation.

He was alone until he suddenly wasn't anymore. One moment, he was admiring the perfect curve of a shell he held. The next, he became aware of a familiar presence some paces behind him. He turned slowly to find Mayuri watching him. The medicine seller smiled his unpleasant smile as Szayel acknowledged him.

"So this is what you'd do without the drugs holding you back. An interesting choice. Your mental landscape is still an island, albeit a bigger one," he remarked as he looked around.

"Why are you here?" Szayel asked, feeling a little cross about this intrusion. Mayuri shrugged.

"You tell me. This is your world. But if I were to hazard a guess, it would be because success is more gratifying when you have an audience to acknowledge it."

It was true. Though he resented the man to no end, there was a sort of satisfaction to be had in showing off his creation, even if it was only to another spectre of his imagination. He was proud that he'd achieved this level of control. Tossing his shell into the surf, Szayel turned away from Mayuri and continued his walk. The medicine seller matched his pace, falling into stride beside him as if he were his equal. Szayel lengthened his stride a little so he would fall behind a step.

"Why is an island an interesting choice?" he asked when he'd finally managed to swallow his annoyance.

"Because it's a fundamentally defensive position. You are surrounded on all sides by the ocean, which in most cases is representative of some sort of mental besiegement. Doubt, anxiety, nightmares- whatever you are trying to keep at bay on your island of sanity. With this level of control, you could have imagined miles upon miles of countryside. Mountains, valleys, hills. Primordial forests with equally ancient beasts. You could have populated cities if you'd so desired. Instead, you've isolated yourself. It's a pretty paradise to be sure, but so conservative."

He hadn't thought it possible to dislike the medicine seller more than he already did, but by the end of the man's critique, he found himself bridling at his words. Szayel opened his mouth to voice some sharp retort, then promptly closed it again when he noticed the laughter in Mayuri's eyes. That damnable man, baiting him so he'd make a fool of himself. Well, not today. Not here. Szayel forced down his temper, giving himself time to form a more logical reply.

Once again, Mayuri had a point. Or rather, his conjured doppelganger had a point. Which meant that in the end, Szayel was just fighting with a figment of his own mind. If only the figment weren't so realistic. He knew precisely how to rile him up. Szayel made a sound of disgust.

"How would you shape your world then?" he asked, coming to a stop. He stared Mayuri down, managing a bored expression.

"I could show you." Mayuri's teeth gleamed as he smiled. He extended a hand, palm up, subservient for once; an invitation rather than a demand. After a moment's consideration, Szayel accepted. The world around him blurred and shifted under his feet. Szayel tensed, cursing himself for sabotaging the stability he'd built up, but then the landscape around him began to reform and solidify again. When everything had settled, he found himself in a curiously ordinary house. It was decorated nicely enough, and far bigger than anything a commoner would own. In fact, it looked like it belonged to a titled family. He turned towards Mayuri, skepticism etching his face.

"This is your grand world? A house?"

"This is only one part of my world. The center, you might say."

"Explain."

Mayuri sighed, clearly disappointed.

"Since you lack imagination, I will. Look outside, kitsune. You will see a lovely courtyard filled with beautiful but serviceable plants. They are all things I use in my work. Many of them are probably familiar to you. Beyond that, there are walls dividing my estate from the rest of the urban sprawl. My home is surrounded by a city, located in an important trade hub where I can source many of the supplies I may need and contract others to do work for me. Beyond the city, there is countryside. We are by the ocean to facilitate shipping trade, but my world is not restricted to an island.

There is an entire world out there. Continents, oceans. Everything. The world is mine to explore as I choose. I can create and destroy at my leisure, but I do not position myself as god. I have no interest in ruling it all, so I let it breathe and run wild. I let it surprise me. I have created my seat of power, and it is from here that I venture forth into the world as I choose, pursuing my research without worldly concern for the more mundane aspects of life. This is my ideal- the power to seek knowledge uninhibited. This is what I have modeled my world around. This is why your island is so poor to me."

It was… impressive. Szayel had to admit it. And though he could have called his bluff, since technically Mayuri had no way of proving that he'd created everything he claimed, Szayel was inclined to believe him. His words didn't ring false.

It also stung a bit. Viewed through this lens, his island was indeed poor. And it was exactly as Mayuri had described it- just an isolated sanctuary he could escape to. Idyllic, but boring in the long term; perfection couldn't hold his interest forever.

"You see now," Mayuri said, letting go of his hand. At once, their surroundings began to warp, but this time, they did not reform into some distinct environment. The world around them had returned to an endless void of black space. "So, what will you create?"

Szayel had seized up again, the initial fear of losing control over his dream world making him panic. But as he realized that the blackness was not overwhelming him, he began to relax. It was a neutral medium, waiting for an idea to shape it into something new. Reaching out, he closed his eyes and willed his world into being.

Like Mayuri, his world began with a house. Not just any house. _His_ house, raised from the wreckage of his childhood. He populated it with new faces because he couldn't bring himself to live with the old ones, the ones that he would never see again outside of his dreams. He rebuilt their fields, Tsukiyo's poison garden, the trade routes that had flowed through the region, bringing them prosperity. He rebuilt his world as it should have been, as he rightfully wanted it to be. And Mayuri watched him build, never once speaking until Szayel had opened his eyes again and looked around at what he had created.

"A house," he finally remarked. Not a question, but spoken in a musing tone.

"My seat of power. My ideal," Szayel replied.

"Is it really everything you want?"

"Yes," he said. But a flicker of doubt wormed its way into his mind. It didn't quite feel right. There was still something missing, though he couldn't put his finger on it.

"Well, I'll give you the benefit of doubt and surmise that there's much more to this world that I can't see."

"You would be correct."

"And I'll also surmise that this is in fact a recreation of your birthplace?"

Szayel hesitated a moment before assenting.

"Yes."

"Well, I suppose it's better than an island. You have much more ambition than you let on. Still, in a world where you could do anything… why live in the past?"

"It's not your concern. This is my world, not yours."

"For as long as you're not fighting through drug nightmares."

Szayel stilled, his mood instantly souring. He did not want to think about that. This dream space was a haven, but not for much longer. It was likely that when he woke up, Mayuri would begin dosing him again. And then he'd have to fight just to have enough space to breathe. Feeling weary, he reclined in a cushioned chair and looked up at the medicine seller, who still followed him like a persistent spirit.

"What do you want, Kurotsuchi?" he asked.

"You know what I want," the other man replied.

"You want more than I'm willing to give you. If it was just my blood, I'd give you that. But you want another Nemu, and I don't want to lose myself."

Mayuri laughed. It wasn't mocking for once, but genuine laughter. And it continued for a time, until Szayel's eyes were no longer narrowed with suspicion but confusion.

"Ah, kitsune, how is it that you are simultaneously so intelligent and so stupid? It baffles me," Mayuri finally said, wiping tears from his eyes. Szayel's lips curled back.

"That is too much. I take abuse from you as it is without listening to you denigrate me in my dreams."

"And what will you do about me this time? Cast me back into one of your nightmares again?"

A silver dagger formed in Szayel's hand. It was his mother's dagger, the one Nnoitra had recovered for him. A dagger with a certain weight of tradition. Mayuri's gaze was guarded as Szayel raised it.

"Is that it then? You're going to kill me? You really are so uncreative."

It was Szayel's turn to chuckle as he turned the knife not on the medicine seller, but on his own wrist. The cut was clean, practiced, and deep. His blood welled up and flowed down his arm, dripping onto the floor. Each crimson drop was unaccountably precious to the man before him, and he watched the initial shock in his eyes fade to hunger, then a simmering resentment.

"Well Kurotsuchi, isn't this what you wanted? My blood?" he asked with an arrogant tilt to his head. When the wound began to scab over and heal, he cut into it again, deeper still. Blood began to gush out at an alarming rate, coating his entire forearm and hand. Szayel began to laugh.

"Stop this at once," the medicine seller ordered, striding over to him. Szayel stopped him at arm's length with the tip of his dagger and offered him a serene smile.

"Why the sudden fuss? Does it anger you to see me waste it on my own terms? Hmm?" He rose, a little unsteady from the blood loss and still resting the tip of his dagger against Mayuri's heart, forcing him to take a step back. Reaching behind the man's ear with his bloody hand, he pulled a glass vial into existence. He pressed this into Mayuri's hand.

"So, take it. You can have my blood. Take it."

Mayuri's fingers closed around the vial slowly, as if he could not quite believe the situation. He glanced down at the dagger still pointed at his chest. Szayel smirked, then lowered the weapon. It vanished. He offered his cut arm.

"What is your game, kitsune?" Mayuri asked as he captured a rivulet of his blood in the vial and watched it fill. Szayel remained silent, only choosing to answer once Mayuri had his sample.

"Just this: that I am the sole individual who can decide whether my blood is a poison or a cure."

Mayuri's expression cooled. He examined the vial with dispassion now, already disregarding it as anything but the former threat.

"I see. Then this is useless to me."

He made to toss it aside, but Szayel caught his hand.

"Throwing away a gift is rude. Besides, I didn't say that it was poison."

"What else would it be? I'm well aware of just how much you loathe me."

"That was your gamble, Kurotsuchi. This one is mine. With this, we are on equal footing."

"Hardly. I could let someone else drink this. If they die, it is poison. If they live, it is pure."

"Then you will never get your untainted blood because I will never shed it for you again. Make your choice, Kurotsuchi. Take a chance. What do you have to lose?"

"My life," the medicine seller replied, his lips curving down in displeasure.

"Ah. But think what you have to gain. What _do_ you have to gain, Kurotsuchi? That you would go to so much effort for one vial of my blood?"

Mayuri didn't reply. His eyes were fixed on the vial he held, transfixed by whatever promise it held for him. Szayel knew the moment he'd made his decision. Something in his countenance shifted. His features hardened subtly. Raising the vial to his lips, he tipped it back.

Moments later, he was convulsing on the floor, disgorging his own liquefying organs as the concentrated poison triggered nearly instant tissue death. Fluid seeped from his nose, ears, and eyes as he thrashed. And Szayel watched him die, his initial clench of horrified guilt giving way to long overdue satisfaction. This man had put him through hell. Szayel turned him over onto his side, then hunched down in front of him. His face was carefully composed into a mask of false sympathy, though Mayuri probably couldn't see it through his deteriorating eyes.

"The first pill is a bitter one to swallow, Mayuri. Shall we try that again?"

To his credit, the wreck of a man before him managed a wet cough that could have passed for assent. He hadn't expected his lungs to be functional enough for that. Szayel flipped him onto his back and straddled his chest. The dagger appeared in his hand again. One quick slash, and he'd opened up another gash, this time on his wrist. He pressed the cut to Mayuri's mouth, forced the blood down his throat as he willed him to live. He felt the man choke on the sudden flow, but he had little compassion for his suffering. He deserved to suffer so much more for what he'd done to him.

"Take it, you putrid piece of refuse. Inari knows you aren't worthy, but drink it anyways." He spat the words out with a sort of savage ebullience. His composure cracked into a mad grin.

It was this expression that Mayuri found himself face to face with when he his vision cleared. He appeared less human than ever before. Feral, bloody, half insane with power. But in the half of him that was still present, there was a most unnerving clarity. His intelligence burned fever bright, and he had no doubt that he could turn the full force of it on him with the precision of a scalpel. Though his lungs had repaired, he felt the breath go out of him.

"Wonderful," he murmured, throat still raw from being so recently stripped of its tissues. "Simply wonderful, Szayel."

The sound of his name was like a slap to the face. Szayel jerked back. He hadn't heard it spoken in so long, hadn't figured Mayuri even remembered it. Kitsune was all he ever called him.

"Well, this has been a most enlightening visit, but I must be going now. Enjoy your dreams, kitsune," Mayuri said.

He began to fade beneath him, losing substance with each passing second. Szayel tried to will him back, but the man slipped away from him, evading his best efforts to trap him. He snarled as Mayuri's form finally blinked out of view and he was alone again. Rising, Szayel stalked out of the room, heading for the veranda. He paced there a while, his anger blazing hotter and hotter until it finally burnt itself out and he sat down on the steps to nurse his battered pride.

Even in his dreams, Mayuri got the best of him.

-.-.-.-.-.-

The waking world was unbearable to face. He woke physically refreshed for the first time in months, but mentally compromised by the night's oneiric proceedings. Still, there were morning rituals to complete. So he packed up his bed roll and set about starting a fire to heat up their breakfast.

Mayuri was absent, though Nemu was still around to keep an eye on him. Her skin still bore healing scratches from the bakeneko she'd abducted the day before. In hindsight, he could appreciate what a truly impressive feat that must have been. In fact, it was hard to believe she'd managed it all by herself. It was a shame she lived in her father's shadow; he got the sense that, if she'd been given the opportunity, she could have been a formidable woman.

The fire had died down to a level practical for cooking by the time Mayuri returned. Szayel didn't meet his eyes as he approached, but nodded a greeting to show that he acknowledged his arrival. Nemu welcomed him with her usual quiet "Mayuri-sama." He carried a needle, a vial, and a knife with him, which he placed in front of himself on a folded cloth.

"So kitsune, as you well know, I did not drug you last night. I was occupied for most of yesterday, and I have recently been running low on tsuchinoko venom, so I decided to give you a reprieve while I saw to that. However, I have replaced my supply as of this morning."

Szayel shot him a weary look. He'd known this break wouldn't last long, but the idea of letting the man inject him with venom again was abhorrent. Reluctantly, he extended his arm, but halfway through the motion, he stopped. He reached for the knife instead, plucking it from the cloth and turning it over in his hand. His arms were riddled with greenish bruises from his drug regimen, but they were free of the puckered gashes he'd inflicted on himself in his dream.

In the waking world, he was nowhere near as bold. He couldn't speak or express himself as freely. He wasn't the one in a position of power. He resisted, but he did not take on an active role in his emancipation. And what had his passivity earned him? Precious little. Precious little to show for so much suffering. This had to change. Laying the blade against his skin, he cut. It wasn't as deep as the wounds he'd made in his dream world, just enough to fill Mayuri's vial to the top before the cut scabbed over. When he was done, he sealed it and handed it over to the medicine seller, then sat back to observe his reaction.

Mayuri's face was unreadable as he accepted the vial. But he took his time examining it, his expression curiously free of any sign of gloating. At last, he set it down on the cloth between them and looked across at Szayel.

"That was unusually simple."

Szayel shrugged. Mayuri looked thoughtful.

"And this is freely given? No coercion tainting it?"

Szayel did not reply. Just smiled faintly, reminded of the way things had gone in his dream. He replayed the vision of Mayuri writhing on the floor in a pool of his own hemorrhaged internal organs in his mind.

"I need to know. It's useless to me if it's not freely given."

Szayel stretched, popping bones and joints back into place. It felt glorious making him wait without the looming threat of a needle in his arm. When he'd finished, he met Mayuri's eyes and mimed writing something with a pen. Mayuri's mouth twitched, but he ordered Nemu to bring him paper, ink, and a pen. Szayel composed his features, managing not to look too self-satisfied. It was better that he didn't push Mayuri too far.

_I have a proposal for you, Kurotsuchi Mayuri._ _In your efforts to train me, you have only earned my enmity. You find me too dangerous to trust, yet you ask me for a potentially fatal substance almost daily. This seems counterintuitive. You will never truly be able to trust that the blood I give you is untainted as long as we are at odds, and you have already expressed a reluctance to terminate me because of my rarity. But as it currently stands, my intrinsic value means nothing, because you cannot access it._

_So here is my proposal: take a chance. Try the unorthodox method. Trust me not to kill you the first chance I get and work with me, not against me. Treat me as a business associate, not a wild animal you can tame._

"You forget that I bought you. You aren't free to make demands of me," Mayuri remarked when he'd finished reading.

_And? That used to mean something to me, but I think we can both agree at this point that the purchase was a technicality._

"We're not equals."

_We could be. Or is that really such a terrifying thought?_

"And you would pardon everything I've done just like that? I think not. You're not the type to forgive so easily."

_Do not misunderstand. I loathe you, Kurotsuchi. I will never forget what you have put me through. But I am willing to work with you for a time if it means being treated more equitably._

"For a time."

_Yes. For as long as it takes to remove my curse._

Mayuri was the only person he could think of that could help him. As awful as he was, Szayel couldn't deny that the man was brilliant.

"There's still a great deal of risk involved for me. It's a poor gamble," Mayuri remarked.

_It's your decision whether or not to chance it. But if my value is as great as you make it out to be, then I would think that this might be something worth taking a risk on._

A flash of irritation crossed Mayuri's face, but a moment later, he picked up the vial. This time, the conflict was obvious in his countenance.

"Very well. I accept your proposal," he finally said, voice flat. "Now, answer me truthfully. If I were to drink this, would it kill me?"

Szayel grinned, letting him hang a little longer. Because he could now. Bastard would have to deal with the fact that he couldn't push him around to the same extent anymore.

_It is safe, _he wrote once he was content that he'd made Mayuri wait long enough. And it was. Much as he would have liked to see Mayuri falling to pieces before him in the flesh, it wasn't the most efficient way to earn the man's cooperation.

"Hmm," Mayuri said, still looking dubious. But he unsealed the vial and tipped it back anyways. After several seconds had passed and his organs hadn't begun to rupture, Mayuri nodded and set his materials to the side, satisfied. "It would seem that we are to be in business together, kitsune. Or should I call you Szayel?" He extended a hand, which Szayel tentatively accepted.

Mayuri's grip was firm. Perhaps a little too firm. It was the only warning he had before he was yanked off balance. A flush of anger and shame colored his cheeks as he found himself sprawled on the ground while Mayuri chuckled at his indignity.

"Just one little detail. We're still not equals. I'm your senior in both age and experience, and as such, I expect you to defer to me."

Szayel clenched his fists, willing himself not to lose any more composure than he already had in front of the other man. Rising, he treated him to the most disdainful look he could muster. This only seemed to amuse Mayuri further.

"You should consider yourself honored that I've acceded to this arrangement at all. Don't disappoint me, Szayel. I'll only acknowledge you so long as you can keep up with me." The medicine seller swept up his things and retreated from the fire. Szayel noted that he tucked the vial with his blood away carefully. He felt like he'd just been swindled somehow, even though by all accounts his power play had gone over well. Questionably so; he'd expected a bit more resistance after all this time.

And he was using his proper name. It was almost as unsettling to hear it from him as it had been in his dream. Almost. At least here, Mayuri still managed to make using his name sound like a pejorative, which eased the transition. This would take some time to get used to. Well, at the very least he'd have the mental fortitude now to deal with Mayuri's caprice. He would need every ounce of it to match him. But he had no intention of falling behind, not when he finally had an opportunity to stretch his wings.

* * *

**A/N:** Would you look at that, another update. I was going to post this on Friday in some sort of attempt to pace myself, but it turns out I'm not meant for it. Ah well. I never claimed to have an update schedule. I managed to hold out two whole days before posting this.

I'll let you draw your own conclusions now, not that I've been subtle about anything. Mmmmm yes. Gosh I love writing pretentious snark-banter and organ liquefaction.

As ever, thank you for reading. See you in the next update.


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